


Dancers and Phantoms

by krissykane



Category: The Libertines
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:06:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4359008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krissykane/pseuds/krissykane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a Dorian Gray/Phantom of the Opera-inspired tale where Carl is a gifted ballet dancer and Peter is his biggest admirer</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> a beginning bit of this story was written but unfortunately lost due to my computer croaking, but all that's been lost is an awkward telephone conversation. the story commences without any issue.

Peter took a languid, funeral march-like walk back to the phone receiver and promptly hung up. John was still giggling like this was the absolute funniest thing he had ever seen in his entire life, and maybe it had been, because John could be quite dull sometimes. But Peter always liked the juxtaposition between serious John and much-less-serious Gary. The two of them together brought a certain harmony in his life and rarely were the two on the same page, but they still managed to remain best of mates. Their odd dichotomy was displayed with John’s manic laughter and Gary’s tense expression, completely unimpressed that not only John had forgotten Peter’s birthday, but it seemed to also slip the mind of the birthday boy himself.  
  
Not that it mattered anyway. Birthdays never meant much to Peter except a day to get smashed with a valid excuse. He also seemed to always procure an easy blow job on his birthday, like it was his birthright. Last year it had come from Francesca, the year previous a random blue-haired French girl in the wash room of a club at half past whatever hour of the night. Before that he wasn’t sure, but Peter was certain he was getting blown on his birthday or the early hours immediately after his birthday since he was sixteen, and that wasn’t very long ago.  
  
Tonight, he wondered where the deed would come from. Most probably Maria, but she had an ethereal grace about her that had Peter almost shuddering at the thought of her being so vulgar. But her perfect pink lips would look perfect around him, almost like an oil painting, flushed in the gruesome artificial lighting of a bathroom they’d probably find themselves in. Peter could hardly wait.  
  
It took only a few more minutes for Gary to get over the whole forgetting debacle. “Now, I’m going to make dinner. Pete, do you have something presentable to wear tonight?”  
  
“Sure,” he replied, drumming his fingers on the counter while John continued putting away groceries. “Are we headed somewhere fancy or what?”  
  
“Ha! Like we could afford any of that nonsense. We’ll probably just pub crawl but if we look sharp, maybe the debauchery won’t be as profound as it usually is.”  
  
“Meaning: Gary’s not putting up with any shit tonight since he’s got an early morning shift. He thinks wearing a pair of trousers will lessen the need to fall over ourselves in an alley.”  
  
“Ah, the wonders of the trouser pant. I’m pretty sure a pocket square of a flower in my buttonhole will do the same trick.”  
  
“Dandiness is rarely seen around the East End on a Tuesday night, so have at it, Doherty,” John said, looking up at him through his untidy brown hair. Peter winked at him and John smiled in return. Peter always got the sense that John only pretended to be tired of Peter to hide the fact that he worshiped him, or at the very least looked up to him, despite being older. More than once he’d caught John in a state of awe after Peter had played them a new song he wrote, but then he’d shake his head and give a dull reply like “sounds great” and move on.  
  
Still, Peter appreciated it all the same. He thanked Gary for making dinner and set off back to his room, to think, to plan, to decide on what kind of night he was going to have.  
  
It was only about an hour or so later when he emerged, dressed in trousers that had some questionable kind of stain that was probably cum, which Gary made him wash out immediately after seeing him. “That’s barely an outfit,” John noted, looking at Peter’s too-small blazer with a rip in the left elbow and a skinny black tie. The shoes were old brogues that once belonged to his father and were probably still a little bit big on him, but Peter managed. John had on a wrinkled blue button up and Gary had on his smart brown tweed jacket, looking like their uncle. They were a motley crew assembled at their dinner table, knocking knees, scarfing down the dinner Gary made at a leisurely place.  
  
Peter didn’t feel 20-years-old. “You’re no longer a teenager!” Gary was very excited about this next stage in his friend’s life. “What’ll be your first act of business?”  
  
They were heading out the door, down the three flights of steps, emerging out into the sunset. Peter noted that Maria wasn’t milling outside and wondered if he should have contacted her, but it seemed Gary had a plan. Probably a surprise party he well couldn’t keep a surprise, but the sentiment was there. Peter blinked out against the low horizon sun and the orange blur cast against John’s pinched, squinting face.  
  
“If I’m not completely off my head tonight, I swear…”  
  
John grinned and looked over his shoulder, then bent down to roll up one leg of his dark colored, smart jeans. There was a nifty bag of what looked like weed attached to his ankle, in the sock, and Peter nearly spat with laughter. “You absolute legend! Is that my birthday gift?”  
  
“Sure, mate. Y’think you’ll be off your head alone tonight? Think again…” Gary rubbed his hands together in delight and set off, Peter and John following.  
  
Finally. Peter only ever had the pleasure of being drunk with Gary and John but maybe Gary figured getting high for a little was a better deal then waking up early with a hangover. Peter was okay with this. He’d settle for any kind of illegal tomfoolery with his best mates, and now that they were all well above the legal limit, they lost the charm of underage drinking. Weed? Still illegal. Peter pointed out cops all along the road and John shoved him at every curbside, threatening to dissolve the entire night plan, but Gary just plowed on.  
  
They ended up standing outside Lisa’s house right when the sun at set. Lisa Moorish was an odd sprite of a girl, a bit older than the rest of them but still very young at heart. She and Peter had fucked on the odd occasion but the two of them were so close that everything stayed miraculously platonic, to the point that they almost acted like siblings on their nights out. Which, of course, was entirely disgraceful, but such was their friendship.  
  
But Maria was still on Peter’s mind and made a point to tell this to his friends. “Did you invite her?” It was a silly question considering only Peter ever spoke to her, so they wouldn’t know her number.  
  
Gary shook his head. “Sorry. I’d figure you’d invite her out anyway. Give her a ring on the corner, I’ll give you some change.”  
  
So Peter stuck himself in the phone booth, closing the door, shutting out the outside world for a moment. He always carried his tiny moleskin notebook with him and pulled it out, turning to the back page for the little chicken scratch numbers and addresses that were vital to him. Maria was there in red ink, feverish and wild, and he tapped his foot anxiously to the ringing, just waiting.  
  
She answered after five tortuously long rings. “Hello?”  
  
“Hello gorgeous,” Peter began, unable to stop himself. “How are you on this newly born evening?”  
  
“Ah, just fine, thank you. And how are you?”  
  
“Very well, thank you very much. But I must inform you that today is not like other days, as you cannot imagine.”  
  
“And why would I not imagine this?” Her voice was so soft. It was posh, like Francesca said, but Peter needed something fragile and beautiful like Maria once in a while. Also she had the vernacular to keep up with Peter’s odd quips and choice of speech, and it was wildly lovely to be able to converse in his normal way without alienating his friends.  
  
“Because I made no implication that today was anything other than a normal day. But you will be shocked to find that today I, Peter Doherty, aged another year.”  
  
She gasped. “It is not your birthday!”  
  
“It is, my sweet. It is.”  
  
“This is terrible. How am I supposed to get you a gift now?”  
  
“Your presence would be the absolute best present I could ask for tonight.”  
  
“Hm. I think I can make due with that. Where shall I be tonight?”  
  
It took a little shouting out at Gary down the street, but then Peter ducked back into the booth. “The Checker Board, one hour. All right, love?”  
  
“Yes yes, I will see you soon.”  
  
“Don’t keep me waiting long to gaze upon thine face!”  
  
Maria laughed as she hung up. Peter was just a little bit in love with her.  
  
Once they were joined by Lisa, who threw a happy arm around Peter and yelled happy birthdays into his ear despite being right next to him, they marched on towards the bar. It was nearby, which was a glad thing since the early March air was brutally cold. Peter couldn’t really afford a nice huge coat after he pawned his last summer when he was skint, so Lisa went about tucking him into her own overly large and thrifted faux fur coat. They stumbled over each others feet, underneath passing shadows of lit up windows and crawling frost.  
  
The Checker Board was dimly lit and coated in fiery warmth. Immediately they all ducked into the background, folding into the wallpaper while Peter awaited the grand arrival of his love, Maria. He idly told the rest of the crew, who was later joined by Wolfman, Peaches, Adam (with his new friend Kimya), and a few other odd characters that Peter recognized on the occasion. It didn’t matter if they were all his close friends or not because he planned on getting sloshed, to the point where he couldn’t remember where his apartment was and Maria was going to drag him there and give him the greatest and most romantic blow job of his life.  
  
He waited. Lisa came around with drinks that everyone paid for, except the lot insisted that this time Peter wouldn’t pay for his own drinks. He never really did, always bumming off sips until he had sipped a pints worth, and then maybe bought his own glass for the hell of it. But in a flash there were three tall, gleaming lagers covered in glistening condensation. Peter enclosed a rough hand and chugged until he could feel the biting cold settle deep in his stomach, the rugged taste collapsing on his tongue. Everyone cheered and Lisa planted a kiss on his cheek, but it only reminded him of Maria.  
  
He kept his mouth shut and continued being entertaining. Wolfman played some Clash on the jukebox because he knew Janie Jones was Peter’s weakness, and even though he wasn’t at all drunk he hopped up to pretend he was Joe Strummer, pulling beautiful Peaches to his side to twirl her around and  pretend she was Janie Jones. For a moment he thought about how magnificent it would be to date Peaches, with all her odd beauty, and it had nothing to do with her father being Bob Geldof. Except it had everything to do with her father being Bob Geldof. Still, she was a tinkling little sprite, very unlike her hard-edged father who only softened when Peaches smiled at him. She giggled and danced all through the song and collapsed onto Peter’s lap, wiggling around while he downed another lager.  
  
And then another. And another. Peter was tall but thin, and the alcohol was doing him in big time. His friend’s sounded louder, the air felt hotter, Maria was still absent.  
  
This time the filter was completely fucked. “Where’s Maria?” Peter stood up, unknowingly interrupting a conversation Kimya and Adam were having with him. “Maria. Maria. Where is she? Where’s she gone? Why isn’t she here?”  
  
For a moment Peter heard Kimya ask who the fuck was Maria in her ridiculous laughing tone and Peter nearly freaked. Adam noticed and grabbed Peter hard by the wrist and made him sit down. “I don’t know who Maria is but she’s an idiot if she doesn’t come for your birthday. If she doesn’t, you deserve better.”  
  
Kind and simple words, yet they didn’t sway Peter. He was out in full dramatics, hindered by the alcohol that set his dial to past 10, broken knob, unable to do anything but crawl over everyone’s laps and out of the booth. Then he was truly doing mock dramatics, reciting some Rimauld lines he’d memorized and written over and over in his notebook, towards the door, like Maria would magically walk in once she heard his desperate romantic pleas.  
  
It didn’t occur to him, in his liquor-addled mind, that he was embarrassing himself. His group of friends got quiet and all Peter could think of was Maria. Why hadn’t she come? Lateness could be excused after some point, but Peter was perhaps four lagers in and she still wasn’t here. Terribly unacceptable. Despite her old English novelty, there was absolutely nothing Peter hated more than to be forgotten about. It’s why he loved Gary and John, who seemed to fret over him in a way much unlike his mother, who was overbearing. Peter just liked being looked after, to know someone was thinking of his well being.  
  
And didn’t Maria promise? Didn’t she know how much her absence would affect him?  
  
But then her absence wasn’t an issue anymore. From the vague vicinity behind him Peter could hear Gary exclaim loudly, “thank god!” Thank the good Lord for Maria, who stomped inside with her clomping black boots and skin tight pants. Her flowing white blouse was so Regency. Her nails were red and sharp, her hair pin straight and shooting past her as she strode, and Peter couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful her pinched face was. God, even when angry she looked angelic.  
  
Angry. Angry. The word wouldn’t register. Peter was just far too happy that Maria had arrived, couldn’t even think of how Gary’s previous relief had faded into a bellowing, “oh god!” The warning shot right over Peter’s brain. He was frozen, his friends watching the unfolding spectacle, as well as the rest of the bar.  
  
Maria stopped in front of him, fuming. Peter noticed the light spray of freckles across her nose. “My beautiful darling angel has arrived,” he breathed.  
  
He received a hard slap across the left cheek. Her nails left a burning scrape, to top it off, and the shock was so intense that Peter clasped a hand to his face and doubled over, stumbling against the bar. John shot up to rush to his side and inspect the damage but Peter pushed him aside lightly. What was the pain? Physical, sure, because despite her tiny frame, an angry Maria could deliver a serious blow. Or maybe it was the nails. Peter had been hit by girls, sure, but the strike was so perfect, so full of malice. The dripping hate fell from her marbled eyes and Peter felt his blood run cold.  
  
What had he done? His filter broke again and he spoke his thought out loud.  
  
“What have you done?! You dare ask me that!” Maria’s voice was always so gentle, but this time it was shrill. Peter could barely listen to it. “Why don’t you ask a certain someone what you did!”  
  
It was then that a red-haired wonder appeared, standing beside Maria in solidarity. Even though Peter was sloshed, he couldn’t forget the way Francesca had hated Maria, so the only thing he could do, seeing them standing together in a sisterly way, bound together in Peter’s adultery, was laugh. He laughed. He couldn’t stop laughing. He could almost hear John shaking his head and Gary’s clenched fists of disappointment.  
  
Maria and Francesca were livid. Peter thought their pure emotion was pathetic, except standing before him were two girls he had given his heart to, and now they were blackened sirens who looked like they wanted to rip him apart with their bare hands and toss every bit of his stinking flesh in the Thames. Peter’s head was swimming.  
  
“I’m sorry. Did I invite you, Francesca?”  
  
Another slap, across the other cheek. Wolfman barked in laughter. His friends stayed put, like they knew Peter deserved this, after making Francesca love him, only to move onto Maria. After he nearly had a child with Francesca. After he spent nights upon nights contemplating being married to Maria. After he had fucked Francesca, fucked Maria, never loved either of them- at least Peter was sure these strong feelings of “love” he felt were probably not love, or else he wouldn’t feel them as often. No, he was infatuated with the girls. In lust. His face stinging, he still managed to notice the way Maria’s breasts threatened to spill out of her blouse and how Francesca’s dress was tight to her hips and her legs looked miles long.  
  
His staring was noticeable. Two more slaps, then synchronized steps straight out the door. Then the laughter.  
  
The laughter didn’t belong to just Wolfman, who couldn’t ever keep his mouth shut. Pub patrons were watching the entire thing and suddenly Peter was the star of an on-the-spot sitcom of sorts, just the sort of attention he hated to have. He didn’t like people to laugh at him. He turned on his heel and there was John, shaking his head. Gary was still at the booth, all tense, like he knew Peter was about to blow up and just wasn’t sure how it was going to happen. The rest of his friends were half-laughing or half wondering if they had permission to laugh, and who was Peter to blame them? They knew Francesca perhaps, but not closely. Maria was a stranger. They witnessed two beautiful girls attack Peter and leave, like a movie scene. Surely if Peter was a viewer to this, he would have laughed.  
  
But he was the subject. His cheeks ran hot from not just the slaps, and he raced out the front door.  
  
Just before exiting he heard the shouts of John and Gary, god bless them, but there was no way in Hell he was going to wait up for them. Despite the wooziness that had London turning on it’s side, threatening to turn Peter’s stomach upside down, he fled down the street and turned a corner. London spilled out, a blinding, disgusting mess covered in grime and late winter frost. The air fell out his lungs quickly. For a moment he felt as if he couldn’t breathe, that deafening humiliation, the way Maria looked so god damn beautiful. Peter knew he was never going to see her again and now he’d probably actually have to quit the theatre, so where was the money going to come from now?  
  
For a moment he looked back and hoped to see John and Gary there, frowning faces, ready to take him home. But then Peter was marching forward with long strides, pulling cigarettes out of his pocket and pretending like everything was okay. Passerby gave him odd looks because he wasn’t wearing a coat and struggling to light the matchstick. His hands were shaking. The ash fumbled onto his fingers and burned his skin.  
  
Peter just did not do well with embarrassment. He knew now that it would take him a few days, even maybe a few weeks, to properly face his friends again. John and Gary would be the exception as they were his roommates, but even then he might not utter a word in their direction for a little while.  
  
A distraction was of absolute importance, but a pub was out of the question.  
  
Peter wandered throughout the East End, choosing always the gloomier route. Eventually the streets were covered in grime and cast over in shadows. The cobblestones sprouted weeds and muffled shouting banged against the window panes of countless flats. More than once he chose an alleyway with no thought to what might become of him within those depths, but he emerged without harm and continued on his way. This wasn’t the first time Peter had ever adventured like this, not knowing where he was going or what his destination was, but it was certainly the first time he’s done it alone and drunk.  
  
He only paused when he came upon a man with a high-pitched voice, wearing a fedora and a flower in his lapel. Peter liked his look. Then he registered what the man was saying. “Oi! You there! Y’want to see a ballet?”  
  
Peter had never seen a ballet, nor had he ever been particularly fond of dancing. Sure, he liked doing it and he liked seeing good dancers, but ballet was something entirely different. Still, he found himself shrugging. “Depends. How much?”  
  
The doorman flipped a greasy smile. “Ah, good sir, you’ve found yourself here at the most perfect time! Y’see, we have a few important dogs here t’night. Y’know, journos. That rubbish. We’d like to have a full house to make us look rather grand…”  
  
“Hmph. I take it this place is a regular shit hole then?”  
  
“No, sir! No! Well- yes, in some ways, but we’ve got one of the best dancers in the world here but he’s never to be seen until tonight. So we’re letting in some lovely patrons for free just to fill up the seats. Are ya interested?”  
  
Peter wondered who this dancer was but he was still too drunk to ask anymore questions. “Sure. Where’s my seat?”  
  
“Walk right in, sir, and up the stairs to your right. Box 5 can be yours. Perfect viewing.”  
  
Without another word, lest the dandy crier change his mind about this absolute rubbish of an idea of letting people in for free, Peter dashed right in. And he quickly found out that the place was indeed a shithole, but the kind that was instilled with a perfect kind of grotty East End charm. The main lobby had a tall vaulted ceiling with crown moldings that made Peter think that perhaps, at some point in history, this place might have been a respectable theater but, as it stood today, had fallen in disrepair and turmoil. Still, a chandelier was hung aloft and flickered lamely through a curtain of hanging dust. The red carpet had been trodden on for so long and never replaced and was now flattened and could might as well be hardwood, as the heavy sound of Peter’s boots were any indication of it’s less-than-soft state.  
  
Curiously enough there was a sort of desk on the west side of the room and Peter observed it to be a coat room, fully lit and containing many racks. A freckled and bored teenage boy manned the desk and by the looks of it, the place must’ve been merely half full. A rambunctious group of young kids were chattering by the bar, which was trying to tend to the cheap customers but was not giving any alcohol away for free. Peter’s mind swirled to the idea of more drinks but the dizziness was still affecting him in a way that he stumbled over his own feet trying to reach the bar, so he thought better against it. He resigned to find his Box Five.  
  
A chipped gold sign on the wall indicated where the box seats were and Peter followed out into a narrow corridor. The walls held sparsely hung photographs, most black and white, and he observed them to be full casts. Beneath the photo of the groups were texts describing the scene, such as “Romeo and Juliet, Spring 1954 Cast”. It was rather delightful. The film of aged dust on the surfaces blew up into his nose when he stared closer and Peter sneezed loudly in the recess of the empty corridor, startled himself and headed straight up the stairs at the end of the corridor.  
  
Again another empty corridor, this time with stately wooden doors with a gold number plate. His Box Five was the one nearest to the stairs and when Peter opened the door, he found it was also the box nearest to the stage on the left side, from the dancer’s perspective. He was able to look over the audience like a king upon his subjects, though the room was maybe 3/4 full and chattering aimlessly. They all looked like vagabonds mixed in with some artistic types, then very likely the journos, who bothered to look a bit nicer, holding notebooks and looking grim.  
  
Peter settled in his seat with no expectations of what might occur in the course of the night. His head was still sloshy and he found himself dozing while he waited for the show to appear. Eventually the lights dimmed and this is what awoke Peter, so he sat up and observed that the theater did indeed fill up quite a bit. The red velvet curtain rustled, the orchestra in front of the stage started up, and the maestro began his grand routine as if he was on Broadway.  
  
Once the music began, it didn’t matter that there were no electric guitars. Music had it’s way with Peter no matter what kind it was, and soon enough he was near swooning at the beautiful sounds coming from the string players. Ballerinas of all sorts had already been prancing about the stage in shimmering dresses and tutus, a costume that Peter didn’t even know was actually worn, but nevertheless the thin girls were twirling around in their ensembles like the inside of a snow globe.  
  
In an objective standpoint Peter could see and appreciate their beauty. They were the most graceful things he had ever seen, all seeming to float above the stage rather than dance upon it. Their pointed toes, ivory skin, swaying hands and kicking feet were all in exact harmony with everyone and Peter simply smiled. However he felt about ballet, which was mostly a complete lack of understanding (symbolism and story in dance was just never easily understood by him), it wasn’t necessary to be an expert in dance to appreciate a work of beauty. So Peter decided that he was glad to be cultured for the night, and maybe he’d tell Gary and John that he didn’t fling himself in the river but instead saw a ballet, and they’d shake their heads with a sort of fondness they could never escape when it came to Peter and just say they are glad he’s all right.  
  
Peter had not planned for what occurred a few minutes later. The orchestra swelled to a rumbling sort of dramatic music. The lights dimmed and a lone, strong spotlight descended upon the now empty stage. The ballerinas had pattered away without a sound and slowly into view walked a man. The sight of him caused a few people in the audience to start applauding immediately and Peter sat up with a start. Was this the great dancer that the dandy mentioned earlier? His silhouette was magnificent as it crawled across the dark part of the stage, the applauding only growing larger as he came beneath the light.  
  
Peter gasped. His eyes fell upon the most angelic creature he had ever seen. A pure nymph of night and beauty was there, glittering in his dark, curtained hair. Even from the distance Peter could make out the shockingly pale blue eyes, the grossly stunning pout of a pink mouth, like a blooming Spring rose. His face was pure marble, carved delicately but sharply, his limbs jutting in perfect form. His back had a curious curve that seemed unnatural, only came to accent the jut of behind that had Peter’s heart racing like a Triple Crown winner, on and on for what he thought might be the rest of his life. Surely he would never see anyone as beautiful as this dancer, and this was all before he began to move.  
  
The applause died once the man slowly raised an arm. The maestro did the same, his baton rising and then falling with the dancer as the music began and the dancer rose into majesty. Peter watched with intense concentration, memorizing every shape the dancer made with his legs and arms. He was a moving piece of ribbon, floating through the air, crashing down onto the wooden stage but flying up again a moment later, dashing back towards the curtain and almost teetering off the front of the stage. Peter observed how the front row had started forward, like they were magnetically drawn to him. Peter himself felt his body pulling towards the dancer and, without knowing his name or anything about him except he danced and that he was beautiful, Peter decided he was in love with him.  
  
And with Peter being in love with him, then came the jealousy. He sneered at the people staring at him. None of them would have him. The only thing that mattered was that Peter should find out his name and cherish him for the rest of his life, like he should be. All of this he thought of, including how he might figure his way backstage into this angel’s life, but a thought dawned on him: the journos would surely be lining up to photograph and talk to this man after the show. Would Peter ever get the chance? He’d have to be there first before anyone else and he resolved to sneak his way backstage before the show ended, with all the lights still down and the crew focused on the show. No one should see him.  
  
It proved difficult with his love still onstage, but once he had a break and the ballerinas came on, Peter made his swift exit. He sighed with relief on finding the corridor, the staircase, and the front lobby empty. Still, very casually, he walked until he found a door that claimed only cast access, yet Peter pushed the door open slowly and slipped inside.  
  
It was dark and he was not alone, but like Peter hoped, the crew that was milling about was focused on maintaining the lights and backdrops, or just simply watching the show. Through the shadows Peter moved, intent on finding his love and suddenly remembering that he was offstage. What if he should run into him? He wouldn’t be prepared! Not that Peter had any sort of introduction plan, and he never lacked the right words to say, but an uncommon nervousness bubbled inside the pit of his stomach when he thought about coming face to face with the personification of the word “immaculate”. God was made in the image of that dancer.  
  
Peter, however, did not see him before he was onstage again. From the side he saw how he was again dazzling the crowd, long black hair falling over his face as he jumped through the air and spun. The crew around him gasped and Peter bit back a proud grin.  
  
The private rooms for the dancers were found easily enough, however Peter could not tell from the doors which one belonged to his beloved. He found he would have to wait, but from the hall he could not see the stage. To pass the time until the show ended Peter closed his eyes and felt the music drum in his veins, his head pressed against the wall to feel the vibrations. The image of the angel onstage filled his mind very completely. The more time passed, the more Peter felt himself growing mad with anxiety. It occurred to him that he still felt a little drunk, albeit a bit better, but definitely not in his best form. He was suddenly self-conscious of how he looked, knowing his hair was probably in a right state but it always was a mess. His outfit would have to do, but he still bent down to rub a scuff of his shoe away.  
  
The music had come to a rapturous ending and the applause was deafening. Peter added to the applause even though he did not witness the ending, yet the sweat began beading at the back of his neck as he came to slow realization that he would soon meet his soul mate. Every passing second he became more and more sure of how dear this boy was to him, even having never spoken to him. Meeting him would only serve to validate the feelings Peter already felt, and he ached to know everything about him.  
  
When the applause died, Peter stood straight up and prepared. For what he was preparing for, he did not know, but he knew there was no way to prepare oneself for the very changing of one’s life. He let himself accept what was to happen, in any way it would happen, and drew in a deep breath.  
  
Voices filled the air and Peter continued to wait by the door. It wasn’t long before a tallish porcelain figurine came striding in, paying absolutely no attention to Peter as his eyes trained dutifully to the doorknob of his room, the one right next to Peter. He felt as if his skin was on fire, having his angel so close. From the small distance he could make out the feathered hair, the flushed skin, the smell of sweat and raw nervous energy. Still, his love looked very ready to disappear quickly as he opened the door just small enough to edge his way inside, but Peter was ready.  
  
He stuck a heavy boot in the door and did not even wince when the door was closed on him. It bounced back and the dancer turned around curiously, almost angrily, and enclosed a frustrated frown on Peter. “Who the fuck are you? Get your foot out of my door.”  
  
“My name is Peter and no, I’m afraid I can’t. My foot is meant to be here.”  
  
“Move your bloody foot or I’ll cut it off and toss it to the dogs.”  
  
Peter was swelling with love. “Toss me anywhere you’d like, darling. I’m yours from tonight onward.”  
  
The dancer’s eyebrows quirked in surprise. “Are you joking?”  
  
“Why would I joke about something as serious as love?”  
  
“Love?” A most beautiful laughter caressed Peter’s ears. “You’re fucking crazy, mate. Get away from me, I need to change-“  
  
“I said I’m afraid I can’t be parted from you from this day out. Please allow me to live in your shadow, for I would like nothing more than to look at you every day for the rest of my life.”  
  
The dancer simply blinked at him, face contorting with anger and redness. “Seriously, are you fucking deaf? There’s security here, you know. I’ll fucking call ‘em! You wanna be beaten into a bloody pulp? Hell, I’ll do it myself.”  
  
“It’d be an honor to be touched by you.”  
  
“Get out! Get the fuck out of here!” The dancer resorted to shoving. Peter felt his hands against his chest and his foot against his own, trying to move him from the space between the door and the wall, but Peter was stronger than he looked. The dancer noticed this and only grew angrier. “I swear to the fucking Queen, I’ll kill you if you don’t leave!”  
  
Peter shook his head. “You won’t kill me. We’re meant to be together. You’ll see in time.”  
  
“Bloody queer, you are! I have a girlfriend, all right? Leave me alone!”  
  
“I had two girlfriends quite recently, and yet I find I’m very in love with you. It’s no matter.”  
  
“It’s obviously a matter to me, and now, for the last fucking time, mate. Move!”  
  
This time Peter decided to put a hand up. He considered it a small victory that he was still standing here and the dancer had moved back, having stopped trying to force Peter out. It looked like he was still tired from his performance and this worked in Peter’s favor. He felt sympathetic towards him, his heaving chest, his angered face. “Right. I’ll leave you now, my love. But can I please know your name?”  
  
“No. Fuck off.”  
  
“Right, I’ll just get a playbill or something.”  
  
“Fine. Fuck off.”  
  
“Good night, my sweet prince!”  
  
Once Peter had moved his foot, the door shut in his face, but he was still left smiling.  
  
As he promised, Peter asked an usher for a playbill before exiting, and flipped to the cast page. The lead dancer’s name was Carl Barât, and Peter had traced his finger over the accent mark in his name during his entire meandering walk home.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for this late update! I wasn't actually sure if anyone would read this but I will continue to write as long as there is someone out there who wants to read.

When he arrived, Gary pounced on him with worry and questioning. John had fallen asleep and Peter saw it was nearly two in the morning. Gary asked many questions relating to where he was, if he was still drunk, what happened with Maria and Francesca, what would happen now, but all Peter could do was smile dumbly and hold the playbill over his heart. “None of that matters anymore, my dear Gary. I’ve fallen in love. And this is different from Francesca and Maria- no, don’t give me that face. I know you’ve heard this before but I’m speaking a perfect truth now. I’ve found the love of my life. I just need to convince him that we’re meant to be together.”

Gary blanched. “Him?” 

Peter shrugged. “It’s not as if you haven’t seen me snog boys…”

“I have, but I just thought it was a lust thing, you know. Like, you only have physical attraction to males but both physical and romantic for females?”

“You’re right, I’ve only ever felt physical attraction to males, but that was until this night. I am in love, Gary. You should come around and see him one day.”

“See him? Fuck, who is he?”

“His name is Carl Barât. Isn’t that lovely? He’s a ballet dancer at a theater in the East End.”

“A bloody ballet dancer?” Gary laughed. “I figured if anything you’d go for a brooding poet type like Morrissey.”

“I could never fall in love with a man like Morrissey, as brilliant as he is. But sure, I hope my Carlos has a heart full of romance and poetics, just as much as I do. But in any case I’ll accept him exactly as he is. He’s perfectly perfect. He will be mine in time.”

Gary simply shook his head and that look of fondness Peter was so used to came over his face. “You’re a bloody maniac, Peter. Get to bed.”

The next morning Peter relayed the situation again to John, who was bleary-eyed and simply trying to eat his bagel before heading to work. The best thing about John, according to Peter, was how blasé he was about absolutely everything. Normally Peter detested when people were not passionate or excited about things, but John had such a cool head that it was very necessary for Peter to have him around just to keep a level state of normalcy. Not that John didn’t get excited over things. He happened to be very passionate about their band and his own instrument prowess, and Peter always heard him practicing their songs in his bedroom at random hours of the day. But when Peter informed him of Carl and his love of him, John just nodded lamely and shrugged.

“Long as you’re not throwing yourself into a pit of despair, mate.”

John departed for work and Gary had his day off, so he and Peter walked around Camden to pop in and out of shops and have a mellow day. They spent an inordinate amount of time in record or antique shops, Peter knicking a knick-knack or two without Gary noticing. At some point Gary again inquired over what happened the previous night and despite being mortified when it happened, Peter found he was completely over the situation. Francesca and Maria could not be farther from his mind and he thought about Carl constantly now. Gary seemed amused with Peter’s love and joked about helping him find something to give Carl the next time he tried to barge in on his dressing room, but it turned into a serious gift hunt.

Peter settled on a cheap 45 of The Smiths’ “There Is A Light That Never Goes Out” single. It would most easily display Peter’s affections while simultaneously gauging what Carl’s interests might be, depending on his reaction to the gift, and also might tell Carl a little bit about Peter himself without having the conversation that Peter was so sure wouldn’t come very soon. But of course Peter was not sure when was the next time Carl would perform, so he dragged Gary to the theater again by way of the address on the playbill and inquired after Carl by way of the freckled teenager manning the coat room from the previous night.

In a nasal tone he said, “Carl’s our lead dancer so just check the schedule. He’s in literally all of our productions.”

Peter nearly squealed with delight. Gary procured a schedule by being extremely polite to another staff member and the two left with the the Spring season schedule, a full two-and-a-half months of scheduled performances, all with Carl in the lead. Peter was shaken with delight. Gary grinned and patted him on the back. “All these ‘chance’ encounters,” he laughed, making air-quotes.

“He’s performing tomorrow. Will you come?”

“Nah, I’ve got work. So does John before you ask. We’ll find the next date we’re both free and come along.”

Peter promised to nag them about it if they didn’t keep their promise. The day winded down, Gary picked up ingredients for dinner (spaghetti, at Peter’s begging) and Peter settled to his windowsill to play some guitar. The sun was setting ablaze the sky and he watched carefully, letting his hands roam and the melodies hum out of his mouth without thought. It felt as if his entire body was thrumming with beautiful creative energy as he thought of Carl and his beautiful everything. Suddenly Peter was translating every inch of Carl into chords and hums, and suddenly Gary was calling him to dinner an hour and a half later, the sun already hidden and the stars aloft in the sky.

Dinner was had with John in attendance, to which he listened intently to Peter and Gary’s casual happenings of the day. “I got Carl a gift,” Peter smiled. “You think he’ll like The Smiths? Any sane person likes The Smiths.”

“I wouldn’t say that. They’re very subjective, but you wouldn’t believe that,” John replied.

“And what would you do if your precious Carl didn’t worship Morrissey as you do?” Gary asked.

“I’ll still love him but surely I’ll try and bring The Smiths into his life.”

“What if he hates Morrissey? Because people do.”

“Those people, John, are heathens and need to attend church. I do think Carl should have some appreciation for music, seeing as how he’s a dancer and all.”

“But a ballet dancer. What if he exclusively listens to Tchaikovsky and turns up his nose at all that noisy rock music?”

“Gary, you seek to wound me. Carl has all the look of a guitarist. He has the hands for it.”

“You looked at his hands?”

“They were on me for a small length of time! I observed, of course, and he’s got the long, spidery fingers that are absolutely perfect for guitar. Anyone with perfect guitar hands has the instrument in their soul, I’m very certain.”

“So…why’s it you’ve got the chubbiest fingers of any man I know and you are mad about guitar?” John kept a straight face while Gary choked on a bit of noodle.

“True, I do love guitar, but it’s merely the instrument I use to write the melodies I think of. The difference is that Carl looks like he might be the kind of guitarist to value technical skill. I would be the creativity, obviously.”

“Hmph. If this is true, you should ask him to join our band,” Gary said. “I’m bloody sick of cycling lead guitarists.”

“This might just be fate, Gary. We shall see.”

“If we get a permanent lead guitarist out of this, then you better fucking go to all of his performances,” John said sternly.

Peter laughed. “I find you’ll have absolutely no issues with how often I will see Carl perform, love.”

The next day Peter was bouncing off the walls with excitement. Not seeing Carl for a day was a strange, new kind of torture he had never experienced before. He used to crave Francesca and Maria when they weren’t around but usually he liked the distance so he could pine and love them all the better when he saw them, but with Carl he did not feel the need to ever be apart from him. John was gone all day and Gary was getting ready for work in the afternoon while Peter paced around, contemplating whether he should write Carl a letter, since he was sure he wouldn’t get a decent conversation out of him tonight.

“Jot down some pretty poetry for him or something and be done with it.” Then Gary left and Peter went immediately to follow his advice.

Very quickly he wrote down the first bit of lines that came to his mind when he thought of Carl, folded it up, and slipped it into the sleeve of the Smiths’ single. Then he wore his best jeans, boots, t-shirt and blazer and threw on the tie for good measure and practically skipped out the front door.

London splayed out before him and Peter only thought of one thing: flowers. He’d have to get Carl flowers, even if Carl did not seem like a flower person. Peter was definitely the kind of person who loved buying and giving flowers. He put a lot of thought into what to give, which is why Peter nearly spent thirty minutes pacing back and forth in front of a florist, trying to decide what kind of impression each flower would give.

Eventually he settled on lilacs after the shop owner grew tired of waiting for Peter to decide and went inside. Peter merely grabbed a handful and raced down the street, high on the thrill of stealing, which was only just half of the reason why he stole so much. The other reason was that Peter was always magnificently broke with dwindling shifts at the Prince Charles Theatre after being caught eating popcorn one too many times.

So Peter felt particularly cheerful on his walk to Carl’s theater (which would always be called that and not by it’s proper name, The Arcola Theatre). But right upon coming to the front door Peter realized, with extreme dismay, that he’s now supposed to pay an entry fee. The night of their meeting was only free because of the publicity issue, but now there was a man at the small box office handing out tickets, and Peter didn’t have a coin on him. He could almost feel the flowers wilt in his hand and Morrissey’s elongated, melodic cry. 

But for a boy who had just stolen flowers for his love, there was absolutely no way to stop him from getting inside. 

It worked well enough that Peter was half a criminal anyway, so it was no matter for him to scope out the place. He was looking for torn up windows that people might not regularly look out of, and he found his mark at the back of the theatre. The tallest windows were covered in dust from the inside and Peter only needed to climb up the fire escape and make his way up. Each step was heavy and full of anticipation. He thought about what he might say this time, yet he knew it would be in vain. There was a very good chance Carl might be all the more angrier at seeing Peter return, so what could Peter do but give him the gifts and wait for the door to be slammed in his face? It would have to be so.

And so Peter climbed. He reached the top easily enough and only needed to pull open the window to get in. The dust fell like rain, spilling out into the not so much cleaner London air. The room inside was dark but Peter went in quickly, running on adrenaline and excitement, knowing he was that much closer to Carl. His foot came in contact with some sort of flat object, but it teetered as he tried to put his weight on it and Peter fell inside.

The sound of him hitting the floor was loud and he paused in fright, wondering if security would suddenly burst inside and drag him off. A Smiths song would be perfect background music for that, but nothing happened. Peter cursed into the alley of light that poured in from the window, illuminating the door at the other end of the room. Getting up he noticed he had stepped on some unreliable coffee table, and some books and magazines spilled to the ground. Peter picked up the first one he saw and smiled, as it was a Yeats poetry book, so who had forgotten about this place during years of art and magnificence taking place upon the stage?

He let the book drop to the floor and exited out the door. The corridor was empty and Peter assumed no one actually used this very top floor, but just to be careful, he crept downstairs and tried not to make too much noise. He knew Carl’s room to be on the second floor, so he had three flights to make his way down. Each floor increased in activity as he went, but people seemed to be too busy to notice the skinny dandy fluttering down the steps with a handful of lavenders and a record in a paper sleeve.

He came to the dressing rooms and found, astoundingly, that the show hadn’t started and Carl had not even arrived yet. He knew this because upon arrival, he noticed what might have been some sort of manager flailing about the corridor in a heap of anxiety. “Carl has never been this late! He’s supposed to be in at least two hours before-“

“Sir, please. He’s been late before,” spoke a swarthy and tall middle-aged man, who might just have been the gaudy and rotund manager’s assistant. 

“Never this late!”

“I understand, yet he’s never missed a show. And he always dances well. There’s no reason to assume tonight would be any different.”

“And might it be tonight to differ from all the rest! Our entire theatre rests upon his shoulders, does he not understand that?”

“He does, sir. He’s just mightily calm about it.”

“Never have I dealt with such a remarkable talent that was so unaware of their own talent, by God…”

“Carl is aware of his talent, but his mind seems to be elsewhere.”

“Is dancing not his passion?”

“I would assume it to be, seeing how well he does it.”

“You could be a natural and not be passionate about your art…”

“Even if this is the case, Carl shows up and he performs. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

“Yes, I suppose we shall… I cannot bear to stand here any longer. I’ll be in my room. Fetch me some tea, Algernon, and have someone alert me with Carl arrives!”

“Will do, sir.” 

The manager disappeared and Algernon went striding to retrieve tea, never noticing Peter crept on the stairway, watching the entire conversation unfold. His heart was pounding. How could he come to love such a wonderful person? The drama of it all! A careless but once in a lifetime talent, late to his own shows, sending his manager into madness, yet still to stroll inside and wow his audience into oblivion. Peter felt a magnetic attraction to all of it, the entire situation, not even just to Carl, yet that attraction was serious enough. Suddenly Peter wanted to be a part of his life, to witness the daily events surrounding his life as a genius dancer, to see how everyone worshipped him, but not as much as Peter.

Before he entered, Peter felt him. This great pull clawed at his chest and he surged forward into the corridor just as Carl was walking inside, in a rush, dressed in a leather jacket and ripped jeans. Peter wanted to die. Carl was getting his key to open his door when Peter came to his side and felt his knees go weak. Carl was so beautiful! How could Peter have never known what Carl dressed like outside of his ballet uniform? Of course this angel wore leather and denim like a rock god, torn up boots and a t-shirt that looked like it had seen better days. Who was he? Peter was entirely at his disposal.

Peter threw himself at Carl’s feet, his gifts falling to the floor. “My love!”

Carl looked down and snarled. “What the fuck? Are you kidding me?!”

“How could I ever kid with the likes of you, my dear? I’ve got these gifts for you…”

Carl, in his state of shock, hadn’t even brought himself to open his door. His magnificent eyes were fixated on Peter, still kneeling in front of him and not looking the least bit embarrassed by it. Frankly, Peter would submit himself to every whim of Carl’s for as long as he lived.

“This is ridiculous. I’m calling security. SECURITY-“

Peter jumped up in fright and grabbed Carl by the arm. “Shhh! Please, darling, that’s absolutely unnecessary. I’ll leave you alone in just a moment.”

“Look, I’m fucking late. And you need to fucking leave me alone so-“

“I understand, but you wouldn’t refuse the gifts of the man who loves you. Would you?”

Carl looked furious and uncomfortable, but kept his tone level. “You won’t leave me alone until I take this shit, huh?”

Peter shrugged and managed a smile. “I got them especially you for, is all… wouldn’t be very nice of you to outright refuse them. I mean, they were bought and stolen with thought.”

“Bought and stolen? The fuck?”

“I bought the record, I stole the flowers. No big deal, honestly. And there’s something I’ve written for you, in the record sleeve-“

Carl grabbed the record and flowers with a frown. “Fine. Whatever. Now go.”

“Promise you’ll have a listen? All my feelings for you are encompassed in that little record in your hand. Please keep that in mind.”

Carl blinked down at it, then back at Peter. “You’re the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met and I won’t listen to this record if I don’t want to. In fact, I can tell you that I won’t! I’m just taking it so you’ll leave me alone. So that’s the deal, all right? I’ll take these, and you’ll leave me alone. For good.”

Peter wasn’t satisfied. In fact, Carl’s words hurt. He obviously wasn’t happy, despite all of Peter’s affections. Why did Peter have to love the most difficult man in the world? It wasn’t due to Peter being unable to charm boys, because he had on many occasions, so why was Carl so immune? The most beautiful and perfect man alive had to be his one day, but it was going to take a world of effort. Peter just wasn’t very patient.

He sighed and hung his head. “Okay, fine. I’ll still be seeing your shows since you’re brilliant and all. But I can’t promise I won’t swing by to say hello once in a while.”

“If I see you back here again, I’ll really-“

“Is there a problem here, Mr. Barât?” The voice belonged to a security guard, who had answered Carl’s previous yell.

Peter blanched and stepped back. Carl looked at him and sighed deep. “No, it’s fine. Sorry to bother you, officer.”

The officer stepped away and Peter looked up with glittering eyes. “Thank you, Carl-“

“Don’t thank me for shit. I’m calling him back if I see you here again, and I mean it.”

Peter put on his sad eyes. Carl narrowed his own and Peter wondered if Carl thought he was putting on an act. The truth was, Peter hadn’t felt his sad in a long time. He could even weep if he wanted to. Instead, he bowed his head, said goodbye, turned on his heel and left the corridor through the crew access door. 

Peter’s despair was unparalleled. And despite his fragile state. he walked up towards Box Five and sat himself in the empty chair and watched Carl’s show. He was as perfect as he was the other night, dancing with such grace that Peter could see the people rising from their seats every time he pirouetted with such majesty. Peter’s fingers gripped the balcony bannister and he wished he could catapult himself into Carl’s arms. He committed him to memory, walked home in a haze of sadness and threw himself into bed with every image of him strangling his mind. Gary and John weren’t home, the flat was dark and quiet, and Peter hadn’t the littlest strength to even move. 

Yet he found himself rising to his guitar and to sit by the windowsill, as he always did. His melancholy dripped off his chords and melodies, his voice light and soft. A tear fell as the moon hung aloft in the sky. Peter stopped playing when a strange noise occurred beneath him, like a trash can falling over, but he assumed it was an alley cat and just slinked off to bed. Carl danced like Salome in his dreams, covered in an ivory veil, just for Peter.

When Peter awoke, John and Gary were still asleep from their late shifts. Still alone, he ate cereal on the lumpy living room couch and contemplated when he would dare see Carl again. His dance schedule sat opened on his lap, almost committed to memory. He could see him again today at a matinee, early in the day. Perhaps Carl might be in a better mood then. The paper specified that school groups would get a discount and Peter imagined little boys and girls gasping and realizing what true beauty was in Carl’s dancing, and the idea made him smile.

“Thinking about Carl again, ay?” Gary came out from his bedroom, too happy for the morning. “How did last night go?”

“Awful,” Peter pouted. “He doesn’t love me.”

“Well you just met him. Did he like the gifts?”

“He was bothered by them but he took them anyway.”

“Bothered? Who the fuck would be bothered by gifts?”

Peter shrugged. “My one true love, I guess.”

“Not sure about this one, Peter. Usually no one is immune to your charms.”

“Actually, this might be a good sign,” spoke John, who was also suddenly out the bedroom as well. “Peter usually charms himself into anyone’s pants and forgets about them in a few weeks time. It’s not true love. If this Carl is immune, then Peter’s just going to work harder. Might they just create a meaningful relationship through this? Who knows?”

Peter admired John’s optimism yet still felt unsure. “Don’t know, lads. He’s very stern about this. He has a girlfriend too, he said.”

“Wasn’t ever a problem for you, was it?”

“No John, but I mean he seems like, very straight? You know, if I’m pulling a boy they’re usually the pretty types that I know go that way. Carl’s very pretty but he also seems very straight. What am I to do with that?”

“Befriend him first,” Gary suggested. “Pull back the love thing. Become his mate, then take it slow.”

“Take it slow, you say! And how might my heart take such pain?”

“Either you take it slow or you never have him,” Gary said. “Your choice, Petey m’boy.”

Peter contemplated this for a moment, but then asked, “Can I still give him gifts?”

“No! Do you regularly give Gary and I gifts?”

“No, he doesn’t, John. And isn’t that hurtful?”

“Nah, its okay. Just means you don’t want in our pants, huh, Peter?”

Peter shrugged. “You’re both good looking lads, but you’ve got nothing on Carlos…”

“I’m curious to see this fellow now. Might we accompany you to the theatre?”

“Have you lads work today?”

“Both of us late shifts,” Gary answered. “So-“

“But there’s an early afternoon matinee today! Can you both come?”

John shrugged. “Guess so.”

“Sure,” Gary replied. “Is there a dress code?”

“No, not really. But we’re getting in through a dusty windowsill so be prepared for that.”

Not so long later, Peter was directing his best friends into the back window of the Arcola. “Careful! I’ve got the table steady, so just get a good footing-“

“There’s a fucking book there or something. Move it or I’m gonna fall!”

“Fine.” Peter pretty much threw everything on the table to the floor. “Now, John.”

John came in just fine, with Gary after them. They both coughed in the darkness and Peter could see their faces in the flooding light. John looked unamused and Gary giddy, like he always did when he did something mischievous.

Like before, they came down the steps and did not pay any attention to anyone, lest someone take a good look at their face and realize they weren’t part of the crew. They came up to Box Five and settled into the seats, Gary remarking that the place was pretty nice (which was undoubtedly out of courtesy, since the place was a shithole) and John just observing everything quietly. The downstairs seats filled up about halfway, most of them teenagers indeed on school trips, and Peter grinned. He wondered how many girls would soak their seats, how many boys would question their sexuality on an innocent Tuesday afternoon. 

Peter was anxious at his seat. “Calm down, you’ve seen him before,” John said, sitting still. 

“Yes but he’s lovely.” Peter drummed his fingers against the bannister. “Are you both not excited?”

“I really don’t know what to expect to be honest,” Gary began, “but I trust your judgment more than I should considering the shit we’ve been through. And it’s not like any of your girlfriends have been ugly or terrible.”

“Ha!” John’s laugh nearly startled Peter. “Some have been plenty terrible, like Francesca. Right nutter. Maria was the only decent girl I’ve seen Pete date in ages.”

Peter sat in quiet contemplation until he decided to interject. “I’ll have you know that Francesca was quite interested in art. We spent many a time at the museums.”

“Right, but where’s the talent?”

“Right here! Oh shush, it’s starting,” Peter said, just as the lights dimmed and the curtain drew open.

The audience half-heartedly applauded, Peter’s own applause racketing over everyone’s. John and Gary sat expectantly. The beginning of the ballet brought on the girls in their lovely tutus, twirling magnificently. Peter tried to gauge his friends’ reactions to this kind of artistic setting but only saw that Gary, bless his heart, was leaning forward to engage himself better. John was still slumped in his chair, probably wishing he were somewhere else.

It wasn’t much longer until Carl came out. Peter could feel him, somewhere beyond the thick curtain, waiting to get onstage. The orchestra swelled and Peter grasped both John and Gary’s arms in a tight grip and grinned. “Here he is!” Gary bent himself forward even further. John actually sat up straight. And once Carl’s beautiful silhouette crept onto the stage, Peter stood up and began applauding so loudly that he could see some heads turn from the bottom floor. 

And most importantly, his volume caused Carl from the stage to look in his direction. His face of carved marble twisted into a quick sneer and Peter’s blood ran cold. Then Carl went back to concentrating on his dance and flew about the stage. 

Despite the scorn, Peter sat back down easily and watched in the same amazement felt the first night he saw him. Carl was simply beauty in human form. This time he wouldn’t dare seek Gary and John’s reactions, less he miss any of Carl’s performance, like he usually did going to dart off and meet him at his room. This time he sought to see him through to the end. 

Carl danced for a while, the crowd applauding him at all the right impressive moves, until he went offstage to an even louder applause. Peter’s heart swelled with pride and as the ballerinas came onstage, he turned to his friends. “Well?!”

Gary smiled. “I mean, objectively he’s a very fine looking lad. And you know I know absolutely nothing about ballet but I really enjoyed his dancing. Looks a right talent, ay, John?”

John was still expressionless. “Yeah. he’s all right. He seems your type, Peter, like I’ve seen you date girls who look like him.”

“All right? Is that what you have to say after seeing the most perfect dance ever to be performed in the world?”

“Like you could really know such a thing,” John said, rolling his eyes. “But fine, I agree. He’s very good.”

“Absolutely,” Gary agreed. “I quite approve of this fellow, if you manage to turn him someday. Might I suggest you write him a song?”

“Already on that, Gary. He simply exists in my music now. He could never not be part of my music for as long as I live.”

“That’s a bit much…”

“John, excuse me, but I wouldn’t expect you to understand-“

“Oh, I do. You’re in love, I suppose, and so am I with my girlfriend. But we can never be sure of how long these affections will last.”

“John, you’re such a fucking spoilsport. Don’t you believe in true love?”

“Nah, that’s too dreamy. I’m a realist.”

“We know that well enough,” Gary laughed. “But I agree with him, Peter. You have to be careful.”

“Neither of you satisfy my needs to imagine life beyond comprehension! Carl is meant to be mine, since the both of us were born.”

Gary simply shrugged in response. John blinked at Peter. Peter threw his arms up. “You’re both unbelievable.”

“Peter, do you believe in George Harrison?”

Peter was confused by John’s question but nevertheless answered “of course”.

“Someone once asked him if his love would grow, and you know what he said?”

Peter sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Right. As much in love he was, you can never gauge how in love you will be in the future. This is only a caution, Peter. I fully support your love of Carl, but I cannot bear to see you throw yourself into despair if this doesn’t work out. I care about you is all,” John said. Gary nodded with him.

“I appreciate that, but really. Carl and I will be together someday.”

“I do hope so.”

And like that, Carl came back onstage. The applause fired up and Peter was again distracted, oblivious to the worried looks Gary and John gave each other behind his back. But like the good friends they were, they applauded Carl just as loudly as Peter, very aware of how Carl was now looking up at Box Five every so often with a furrowed brow.

After the show ended, Peter was very tempted to go back to Carl’s room, but John and Gary convinced him that a few drinks at the pub would be a better idea. They thought opposite of the idea later that night, with Peter sloshed and rambling constantly about Carl. There was simply nothing they could do to remedy the situation. After they dragged Peter home and laid him out on his bed, they stood over his passed out body like a couple of worried parents.

“He’ll have his heart broken,” Gary sighed. John just shook his head down at him. Peter always looked very angelic in the moonlight, all of his soft features and blush cheeks in their sleepy, innocent state. His heart wasn’t ready for the type of anguish it would receive the day Carl finally scorns him. The two of them had seen his looks of indifference, or perhaps anger. It frightened them. But Peter would never stray away from something he fiercely loved and they both resolved to leave him be and learn a lesson through this, and they would be there to pick up the pieces like the best friends they were.

The next day was possibly one of the worst days of Peter’s life. He awoke terribly hungover and threw up in the bathroom, alone, since John and Gary were out of the flat. Then he still decided to dress himself up and scope out Camden Market, where it was easy to steal in it’s winding shops and corners. At a vintage book store he managed to steal a collection of John Keats’ letters to Fanny Brawne and spent the next hour or so eating some chips and underlining all the beautiful words John had written to Fanny, with the intention of giving the book to Carl and hoping he read the highlighted passages and better understood Peter’s affections. This moment was the best moment of the day by far, but then to Peter’s extreme horror, he got to the theatre and found the window he had previously used was now locked! He stood outside sweating nervously, the book heavy in his hand.

How would he get to Carl now?

For a brief moment he considered breaking in the window but he did not want to appear soiled and possibly covered in blood, not knowing how the glass might fall on him. 

His next attempt was to wait by the back stage door and try to slip in with a crew member. He leaned against the wall by the door and read his book, only looking up when a burly man came out the door. Peter thought of just slipping inside the door before the crew member noticed him, but the man saw him immediately. He raised an eyebrow and asked, “are you an usher?”

Peter nodded calmly. “Yeah. Am I needed inside?”

“There’s set-up to do, you ponce. We’re short-staffed tonight. Megan and Liza called out, so get inside now.”

“Yes sir,” Peter rushed, heading straight in. His heart was pounding. 

The backstage area didn’t look busy, which didn’t bode well for Peter. He was extra nervous about making his way towards his box. He even passed by Carl’s room without stopping, which caused his heart to fall into his stomach. Peter so badly wanted to see Carl’s face up close again but didn’t want to risk angering him, so he made his way up to Box Five. He sighed outside the door, touched the gold plated 5, and opened the door.

To his extreme dismay, two men were sitting there. They looked back at Peter with confusion on their faces. Peter didn’t know what to do. 

“Boy?” One of the old men had a very posh accent, like he might live in Kensington, or some sort. “Have you come to bring our playbills? We weren’t given any upon arrival. The staff haven’t been very cordial, have they? Might this dancing sensation be in the West End rather than this place…”

“I’m sorry sir, I was just meaning to look for someone’s lost child. I’ll get playbills for you straight away.”

“Thank you, good boy,” the other man said, his nose stuffed and large. “Oh, and I take it you’ve seen this Carl Barât already. Is he really as wonderful as we’ve been told?”

Peter stood up remarkably straight. “Yes, sir. He’s only the most fantastic dancer in the world.”

The man’s eyebrows raised. “I see. I do hope you’re correct, although I question your answer, considering the state of the place we’re in. If he truly is as wonderful as you say, why is he here?”

Peter did not have an answer. “I cannot tell you, sir. I… don’t know Mister Carlos personally.”

“Carlos?”

“Sorry, sir. Just a nickname for him.”

“I thought you didn’t know him personally…”

“I don’t, but the crew calls him so.” Peter coughed. “Affectionately, if you will.”

“…I see. Now be a good lad and fetch our playbills, if you will.”

“Yes sir, straight away.”

Peter slipped out and pressed himself up against the corridor wall. How could he be in this mess now! Now he had to help the men, so Peter went downstairs and tried to see if he could steal some playbills. But alas, he could only see them in the hands of some young blonde girl in a gray suit, similar to Peter’s. Perhaps this is where the mistake with the crew member came from.

Peter approached her with his most charming grin and she smiled back at him. “Hello, sir. Do you- wait, do you work here?”

He thought on his feet and went with his gut. “Yeah, I don’t work here very often but I’m filling in for Liz,” he said. “I’m Peter.”

“Liz? She called out but she didn’t say anything about having someone cover her,” the girl said. “Hm. I’ll have to tell Bernard-“

“Oh it’s no bother, I’ll let him know later. But I need two playbills for two gentlemen upstairs in Box Five. They’re two of those posh high street types, you know.”

“Fuck, I hate patrons like that. We get some rarely, you know. Like someone recommends they come and see Carl but they turn their nose up at the location and state of the theatre, but hey, Carl’s here. So they come.”

Peter smiled. “That they do. He’s wonderful and all.”

“He is,” the girl grinned slyly. 

Peter felt his blood boil. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What? Nothing! I mean, well, I have been to his room on one occasion, if you know what I mean,” she smiled.

Peter wanted to strangle her. “Does the theatre know they hired a tart?”

“What did you fucking say?”

Peter snatched the playbills from her hands, taking advantage of her surprise. “Stay the fuck away from Carl.” And with that, Peter spun away and up the stairs towards the boxes.

He went in and handed the two gentlemen their playbills and went back into the corridor. So, now he was pretending to work here, all for Carl’s sake. Peter was floored by his own dedication. But what could he do now? The blonde girl was probably complaining about him at the very moment and she knew his appearance and his name. The only thing Peter could think to do was check the other boxes, see if he had a chance to sit inside without attracting attention. It would be too risky to head backstage and wait for Carl.

Peter went inside Box Seven and sat towards the back, in the shadows, thinking.

Gary was right. Peter could befriend Carl if he really wanted to, honestly, because was Peter charming? John once told Peter that before he met him he hated him, seeing him stand drunkenly atop the pub counter, reciting Oscar Wilde. Then John accidentally had to speak to Peter, since Peter was trying to pull his girlfriend, and instead of getting mad at the whole situation, they became best friends. “And this charming man is my best friend Peter,” John would say, introducing him to his sane friends. And Peter would tip his invisible hat and kiss the tops of girl’s hands and wink at the boys, who angered themselves when they blushed.

So could Peter befriend Carl?

Carl came onstage to applause and again, Peter stood up and clapped the loudest. The line shining extraordinarily bright on Carl’s white face had dropped, revealing Carl’s stern expression. He rolled his eyes and continued his dance of perfection and Peter knew, swimming hot in his veins, that Carl was going to be the biggest challenge of his life. 

He’d start slow. Peter waited outside the back of the venue, which was also the cast door. A small group of teenage girls were there with their playbills, milling around, speaking in excited hushes about Carl. Peter chuckled and retrieved the Keats book from his pocket and fished a fag out of his pocket, but then cursing when he realized he forgot his lighter in his other pair of jeans. 

Not much later, Carl came out with his leather jacket, face curtained by his black hair. Peter instinctively reached out, feather light hand moving through the air, but reared back when he noticed the girls flood towards him. Carl hadn’t seen Peter. He looked tired and wanting to leave but instead pulled on a smile and went about signing the playbills, talking in a mumbled voice to everyone around him. Peter was astounded at how polite he was. Well, he didn’t know much about Carl in general (just that he was the most beautiful person alive), but there was something genuine in his eyes when he looked down at the blonde girl and pulled her in for a hug.

Peter was falling. He stepped back and waited, trying badly not to stare but not doing a very good job of it. Carl was truly a work of art. He’d frame him, put him in the Louvre, but probably not because it’s probably overcrowded with tourists and Peter would rather strap himself across a pair of train tracks on the Overground than let millions of unworthy people have a gander at Carlos.

Carlos. Peter smiles and that’s the moment that Carl chooses to toss his hair to the side, the view on the left side of his face suddenly opening. His peripheral catches Peter and he blinks at him, like Peter’s a mirage and he’ll suddenly disappear, but Peter watches him realize that he’s real and actually there and his reaction is another sharp stab to the gut. Carl looks like he wants to stomp over and give Peter a right fist up the chin but he doesn’t, he turns to smile at some gaudy brunette with a silk blouse that has her breasts practically spilling out and yes, Carl looks. Peter clenches his fists. Damn straight, beautiful boy. 

When the girls filter away and Peter is the only one left standing with the unlit cigarette in his mouth, Carl turns towards him. He looks exhausted. “Well? The fuck you want now? My autograph?”

Peter shrugged. “Could do. Would ya?”

Carl must’ve expected some other tart comment, since he raised his eyebrows in complete surprise. Peter watched as his face went through the motions of whether or not he should actually give him his signature. It could imply a lot of things, including that maybe Carl was softening up a bit, but he still looked as hard edged as ever as he stepped over with heavy boots and snatched Peter’s playbill (now becoming a bit of a collection in Peter’s bedroom). Carl flipped to the inside page where his headshot was and scribbled his signature. Peter took the time to watch his face, shrouded in shadows.

“Here. Now, is that all?”

Peter bit his tongue, preventing any flowery declarations from spilling out of his mouth. Instead he smiled down at the playbill, stuck it in the inner lining of his jacket pocket, and put the Keats book between them. “Will you swear on Keats that you’ll go to a pub with me? Right now?”

“What? No. What did I fucking say before?”

“I’m sorry! I really wasn’t thinking the first time I tried to introduce myself and I’d like to take many steps back. You’re massively intriguing and I’d never known dance to be so wonderful before I’d seen you. I’d like to get to know you, if that’s all right?”

Carl sighed, true and deep. “You’re not going to give up, are you?”

Peter smiled sheepishly. He even dared to bat his eyelashes a little, knowing he had unnaturally large eyes and people have admitted to being completely in love with the innocence that practically poured out of them. “I’ve been told I’m persistent.”

Carl rolled his eyes. “One drink. And I mean one.”

“Right! Let’s go then, Carlos.”

“You’re already losing here. M’names Carl.”

Peter just smiled and led the way. Filthy McNasty’s actually wasn’t very far away, which served to be extremely helpful since Peter knew the bartenders at Filthy’s like his old uncles. He had an exorbitant tab on the place and was only allowed to keep going there because all the regulars were very sure that Peter, Gary, and John’s band were going to make it big one day, provided they found a decent guitarist at some point. 

Their walk was tense and mostly quiet. Peter tried making conversation but it looked like Carl was simply following him just to get him off his back eventually, which deeply hurt Peter, but like Carl said earlier, it was not in Peter’s nature to give up. He knew this was going to be his hardest challenge, but true love was on the line. If Carl didn’t want to talk, he wasn’t going to make him, so their feet clomped along the sidewalks. 

Filthy’s loomed into view and Carl paused in the middle of the street, face solemn but surprised. “What is it?” Peter asked, trying his best not to step into Carl’s personal space. It was extremely hard, what with Carl looking like Adonis beneath the gray moonlight of dim and dirty London with Peter’s favorite pub as a frame of old black brick. Peter realized that no artist in the world, not even the old Renaissance greats, could put Carl into a painting and do him justice.

Carl blinked up at the pub. “I’ve been here loads of times. You come here?”

“Seriously?” Peter was shaking. How many times had he been in the same room as Carl and not noticed? How different might his life be now if he had met Carl in the easy atmosphere of the pub rather than through this convoluted situation regarding ballet and impassioned declarations in back corridors? Peter could not believe his life. 

“Yeah,” Carl replied glumly, although Peter wanted to believe he was feigning his annoyance now rather than giving in. Because what person wouldn’t find this extraordinary? But Peter was one for dramatics and found coincidences to be rather romantic, and in the time he’s come to try and understand Carl, he’s come to the conclusion that perhaps Carl was more of a realist, and infinitely more serious and level-headed than Peter.

The idea of their opposites attracting and sparking something otherworldly had Peter wanting to shove Carl up against the brick of the pub. He’d crash his lips against Carl’s, feel him fight and succumb, like melting hot liquid in his hands. They’d shuffle back into the grime-filled alleyway, their secrets entrenched in shadows as they sucked each other’s souls into their mouths-

“Stop fucking staring at me.”

Peter blinked and found Carl’s hard face frowning at him. “M’sorry…” He bit his tongue before a compliment flew from his mouth. “Let’s get you your drink.”

And true to his word, Carl must’ve been here ‘loads of times’. He tossed a salute at Winston, the heavily bearded bartender, who nodded to Carl and then to Peter. Carl walked off to take a seat at the bar and Peter deflated, hoping he’d at least have Carl to himself in one of the back booths where it was dim and quieter, but obviously Carl was looking to get this over with in the most painless way possible- in the reassuring shadow of Winston.

Peter sat next to Carl and smiled as Winston walked up to them both. “Do my eyes deceive me? Is this the infamous Peter Doherty with the equally infamous Carl Barât?”

Carl peered at Winston through his curtain of dark hair. “Aye, plain as you see. Peter here wants to buy me a drink.”

“Good to see my regulars coming together.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Carl mumbled, and Winston shot him a narrow look before turning his attention to Peter, who was shrinking like a violet.

At this point there was no turning back, so Peter just asked for two lagers and Winston knew just to put it on his tab. Once Winston had provided the sweating lager on coasters, he gave both Peter and Carl quick quirks of the mouth that constituted as smiles and walked off to entertain and serve others. But on Peter’s immediate right was an unknown male and on Carl’s immediate left there was an unknown female, and of course just as Carl began sipping his beer, the girl was turning in his direction with a coy smile.

Peter dumped his frown into the rim of his glass and tossed back a few large gulps, knowing that Carl will probably leave soon with this girl, leaving him alone in his despair. However, very soon after Carl began talking to the unknown girl, she leaned her pretty head forward to peer at Peter down the bar. “Hey!” she called, tapping long, red nails on the roughened wood. “You’re a friend of Carl’s?”

“No,” Carl answered sharply. “He’s a fan.”

“Ha!” Peter tossed his head back and Carl frowned at him. “He’s a silly one, ain’t he? We’re best of friends, we are!” Peter hazarded an arm around Carl’s shoulder, to which Carl shook him off and the girl was laughing this tinkling little laugh that wasn’t very enjoyable to hear. On any day before he met Carl, Peter would probably be trying to get into this girl’s knickers, but instead she was just an obstacle. Peter resolved to treat her as such and went to work. 

“Ooh! How long have you two known each other?” 

“Since primary school, huh, Carl? He saw me all alone on the playground and took pity on my poor soul. He was a lifesaver, you know. We were two partners in crime since day one, always wreaking havoc on our poor, unsuspecting teachers and pupils, every day, forever and ever.”

“You two sound right lovely,” she smiled. Carl couldn’t even manage to refute the claims nor joke along. His silence was disconcerting, but Peter just thought that it could be worse. He could be punching his lights out, or sucking the girl’s face off right in front of him, so he calmed.

“Thanks, love. But you’ll have to choose one of us, you know. Carl’s not one for threesomes.”

The girl blushed and laughed and Carl finally shot Peter an icy look. “You fucking what? Don’t be spouting that nonsense or I’ll put my boot down your fucking throat and I mean it.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Mate, there’s no need-“

“I’m not your bloody mate.”

“Um, what’s happening here?” The girl looked right confused.

Peter shot her a smile. “Sorry, dear. Lovers spat.”

“I’ll kill you!” Suddenly, Peter was laid atop the man who was at his immediate right, the two of them sprawled out on the floor in a haze of confusion. A blooming, hot pain was sprouting leaves all over Peter’s left cheek, and the feeling was all too familiar. The man beneath him grunted and yelled and Peter just barely moved off of him, sitting, stuck in a fog of extreme disappointment and false hopes. He didn’t think Carl would actually hurt him- really, it all seemed like a bunch of talk. Not that Carl didn’t look tough because he did, with his ripped jeans and boots and leather jacket and snarl perfected only through years of practice, but the pain of realization that Carl truly did not care about Peter was harder to bear than the physical pain, and the slight blood dripping from his nose.

Winston came to the other side of the bar, snatched Peter and Carl by their collars, and shoved them out into the street. He was fuming by the doorway. “I don’t know what just happened, but you two better sort it out before you step anywhere near my pub. This is only a warning since you both come here so bloody often.” The door shut behind him and Peter was stood there, breathing heavy and feeling lousy.

Carl didn’t even have the decency to talk or move. He stood there, eyes darting from the floor and to Peter’s face.

Peter breathed out harshly and spoke. “You hurt me…”

“Obviously,” Carl said, a hint of laughter in his voice.

“You’re so cruel! Why did you hurt me?”

“Can you really not come up with your own answer to that question?”

“Nothing I said gave you a good reason to fucking punch me,” Peter said, all ease and sorrow suddenly ripped from his voice as he turned to anger. 

Carl noticed the change in tone and stared hard. “I gave up my fucking night to have a fucking drink with you, since you’re so obsessed with me. You’d’ve gone to the floor to beg if I didn’t say yes. Wait, what am I saying? You’ve already been on your knees for me! Giving me all those bloody gifts, fucking saying you’re in love with me, so much nonsense. What am I supposed to do? You’re stalking me!”

“I hardly call going to your public dances stalking.”

“Well, it’s a legal form of stalking. It makes me very uncomfortable to see you at all of my shows. If you love me so much, don’t you care about any of that?”

Peter paused and contemplated this. Carl was trying to make Peter feel bad for turning up at all of his shows, but Peter wasn’t going to be swayed. “I give my full and undivided attention to your dancing. I am a fan of you, and through your work, I’ve fallen in love with everything to do with you. Your art had so swayed me to such heights as these. I’m mad for you…” Peter considered is next works carefully. “…but perhaps I was wrong to cause you such discomfort. My friends were prevailed upon to suggest I hide my feelings in an attempt to be closer to you, but how could I hide what pours out of my pores? My love for you is the bleeding sun. If I have caused you pain, and I suppose I have, I am infinitely sorry. But I cannot apologize for how I act around you. You’ve driven me crazy, Carlos. I’ve not been able to concentrate on anything but you since the day I first saw you. And through that, all my music has been wonderful, since you live in it. I do not want to give that up, but I don’t know what to do to keep you.”

Carl looked as if he’d been blown away. Peter was shaking. He hadn’t ever spoken that truthfully to anyone in his entire life! The words were so beautiful, he was conscious of how well he spoke, and the speech had not even been thought of. It was simply lifted from his soul and born into the air for Carl to hear. But had he understood his message? Peter wasn’t sure. Carl stood there, swaying slightly, staring at Peter with the most extraordinary expression. His lips were parted, his breathing shallow, his eyes fixed strongly and yet full of this light color blue that was so fascinating that Peter couldn’t do anything but stare back, and stare until he was moving forward, into Carl’s space-

The spell was broken when Carl moved back. Peter paused and the pain from his face swept back in, causing him to wince. Carl looked back at the noise and said, “I’m sorry I hit you.” 

It was his first victory. “It’s okay. I angered you.”

“You did.”

“I already said sorry…”

Carl sighed. “I suppose you’ll be back, then. At the theatre, I mean.”

Peter shrugged. “I’ll keep myself hidden.”

Taking this as his own victory, Carl nodded and made to turn away. But Peter suddenly remembered and reached how to grab Carl by the arm. He looked at Peter with the same grim expression and Peter knew he still had a fucking mountain to climb. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the book of Keats. “I know you don’t like the gifts but I got this for you. I already own this book so it would be silly for me to keep it.”

Carl shook his head and grabbed it roughly. “Fine. What’s this now?”

“John Keats’ letters to his one true love, Fanny Brawne. I underlined my favorite lines… for you to read. If you ever do.”

“Right. Thanks.” Carl shoved the book in his pocket and turned away without another word. Peter watched his back as it faded into the fog of the dim street, and disappeared around a corner.

Peter was a wreck when he returned home. Thankfully John was home, albeit incredibly tired from his shift, but so tired he was unable to lift himself from the couch. Peter took this chance to throw himself dramatically onto the couch beside his friend and toss his arm over his face, whimpering. “It’s so hard, John. I’ll be ancient by the time he loves me back.”

“You’re really certain that him loving you back is inevitable, rather than a situation that is less likely to happen than you think.”

Peter fumed. “I expected support from my best friend in matters of the heart.”

“As you know, dear friend, I’m a realist. Gary will be the one to fill your head with silly notions. He’s a pretty straight boy, Peter. I think you would do better to begin accepting that.”

For a second Peter’s mouth opened to begin some wild retort, readily laced with Wildean quotes about how Peter’s affections has to enraptured him that it was entirely impossible for him to give up now. Besides, despite just having received a physical blow from him, Carl had accepted that Peter would go to the shows. He could have easily threatened to have security be on the look out for Peter so that he’d never be able to sneak in there comfortably again. He was the theatre’s star and if he so much as asked for a personal foot massage from Algernon before every show, he’d get it. Because everyone there bloody loved him.

But Peter loved him. He ached with his love. And John wasn’t going to help at all, so Peter stole away to the bathroom to assess the damage of his face.

It was a rough punch to his cheek in which Carl’s knuckles must have slid and hit his nose as well. The beginnings of a bruise were forming beneath his eye and his nose still bloomed with faint hot pain when he touched it. It was probably bruised as well, and not broken, which was all well and fine. It would have been more dramatic if Carl had broken his nose. 

A solemn little tune sprang into his head. Peter disregarded John, who had fallen asleep on the couch, and went into his bedroom. He assumed his regular position, sitting on the windowsill with his guitar on his lap, and began playing. The song was slow. He would dare say it was a nocturne of the most wretched variety, as he was no Chopin, but it would have to do for heartbreaks under London moonlight. As it normally did, his voice opened up and he lightly sang about pirouettes and velvet blackness. It had all the gentleness of his acoustic songs, all the melancholy, all the longing. Any longer and he would have begun weeping Carl’s name to the tune of a C chord continuously strummed into the night, but Peter knew better than to be that dramatic, so he set his guitar down and fell into despaired slumber.

The next morning, Peter reached for his bedside table, still blind from his dreamless sleep. His hands crinkled around the theatre schedule and Peter blearily blinked the tiredness from his eyes while he focused in on when he might see Carl again. Despair bloomed in his heart upon seeing he would have to wait a full day before making his way back to the theatre. He thought it might do to spend half the day playing guitar and the other half of the day going back to Filthy’s and apologizing to Winston for causing such a ruckus in his beloved pub, and perhaps offer to clean and service customers for a few quid.

When Peter walked into the kitchen to search for some cornflakes for breakfast, he was greeted happily by Gary. “Morning, mate,” he smiled, only to pause and allow his face to twist into concern over the state of Peter’s face. “Who’d you get into a fight with, huh? Looks like you lost.”

It pained Peter to answer. He took a moment to pour himself a bowl and chew on a dry spoonful before replying. “Carlos.”

Gary was the face of shock. “No! What happened?”

At least Gary cares, Peter thought, mentally cursing John for being so cold with him the previous night. Through mouthfuls of slightly stale cereal, as Peter just realized, he relayed his woes to his best friend. “I got him to come with me to the pub last night, right? Right miracle, that was. He just looked so beautiful with his fucking admirers crowding around him and I wanted him to myself for one bleedin’ night and I almost got it. We went to Filthy’s and I bought him a pint. Wouldn’t you think a free pint the way to a straight boy’s heart?”

“Well, when the boy is straight…”

Peter shrugged. “That’s the least of my concerns, Gary. Still, it’s proving to be quite an issue. I’ve come to believe, through the events of last night, that Carl harbors some internalized homophobia. At least perhaps he’s hyper sensitive to talks of not being straight because of him maybe not being straight? Do you see what I’m getting at here, Gary?”

With a sigh, Gary sat down opposite Peter at the kitchenette, looking wise and ready to impart important words on his poor, long suffering friend. “You might be right, but please, don’t bring it upon yourself to drag this boy out of the closet. If it’s not his wish, then you must respect it.”

Peter slammed his fist on the table and Gary jumped, reaching to steady his mug of breakfast tea. “How am I expected to idly stand by while my love suffers within himself? I truly may be the one to help him be free!”

“That is not within your area of jurisdiction, Peter!”

“I think it’s my right, as a man in love, to convince my soul mate that we are meant to be together.”

Gary began shaking his head. “You’re mental. I’m all for you getting what you want but sometimes we must accept that you can’t charm your way into anyone’s pants. Perhaps the Queen but not this Carl boy.”

“The Queen is not to be shagged, by any means! Carl, however, is not only meant to be shagged, but to be loved and worshipped. I can do all of these things for him.”

For a moment Gary grimaced, as if imagining Peter shagging Carl, and Peter just shrugged with one shoulder and moved his hair away from his face before it dipped into his bowl of cereal. 

A silent moment passed before Gary raised himself to his feet and sighed. “You still didn’t tell me how he ended up knocking your lights out.”

“My lights stayed on the entire night, thank you very much! And I was joking with a very pretty bar patron about Carl and I being together and he didn’t seem to like it very much.”

“Huh. I wonder why.”

“She was edging in on him! Would you have expected me to just sit there?”

“No, I suspect it might have been terribly difficult for you to witness something like that. But, like I said before, it won’t do to get on his bad side. That is if you ever speak to him ever again-“

“He didn’t say I couldn’t keep coming to his performances. I just… won’t make myself as known, if that so please him…”

Gary slapped a comforting hand into Peter’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. “You’ll find a way to remedy this situation, mate. I believe in you.”

For the next few hours, Peter locked himself in his bedroom with his notebook, his biro, and his guitar, with the window open to allow as much of London to seep into his room as possible. He wrote furiously for a while, trying to pick every crevice of his brain for any deep lying thoughts that might fester if he left them unattended for too long. It always did well for him to write whatever was trawling around his brain, even if it didn’t make any sense when he read it back later. Peter was sure he’d go mad if he didn’t have his notebook, since neither Gary nor John seemed to understand his sprawling talk, lined with metaphors and idealism far beyond anything either of them could entertain considering they both had steady jobs and dreams of just not being in poverty.

Peter thinks he could be poor if only he had his notebook. Hell, it’s not like he’s living large in any kind of way. He’s grateful for his current situation and that his best friends love him enough to let him be jobless for the moment. There’s no way he could go back to working at the cinema knowing Francesca was there. Plus he was already on his last legs with the manager, who caught onto him sneaking all of his friends into the theatre for free and eating too much popcorn on his shifts. 

An odd job is out there waiting for Peter to pick it up but he finds it so hard to do anything except think about Carl. He’s never been so utterly infatuated with a person before and it’s doing his head in. His past flings with girls like Francesca and Maria were well and true feelings, of course, but compared to the flaming, aching feelings he has for Carl, they might as well been schoolyard romances. Peter doesn’t understand how is it that he could have spent so much time at Filthy’s and not seen Carl. He’s sure there was just no way he ever even saw him, if just a glance, because even catching just a hair on his head would have caused Peter to do a double take and that would have been it for him.

Carl is so fucking beautiful that Peter can’t help filling up a good five pages in his notebook with descriptions about him, as well as wordy stanzas about the way his hands felt against Peter, even when they were fists. It’s just remarkable how much of Carl is flying out of Peter at all times. It’s taking all of Peter’s strength not to scream his name out of his window, hoping somewhere out there Carl is walking along some dirty road where he might hear Peter’s declarations of love.

Peter plays his guitar with newfound passion. In the spotted sunshine of the afternoon he plays with so much intensity that he snaps a string and has to spend a good fifteen minutes re-stringing it, but his hands are shaking and he’s trying to hurry up so he could get that melody out of his head. All of Carl’s music is sweeping and slightly sad but infinitely lovely and full of potential. Peter can’t help playing things he imagines Carl might dance to, except he’s in his jeans and leather jacket, twirling around just as gracefully to the rough scratch of guitar.

Peter plays and plays and plays and wonders if anyone ever listens. There’s an alley full of garbage underneath his sill but he hardly looks down because of the vertigo he gets sometimes. He’s not afraid of heights but his head goes to a whole other place when he plays guitar, so he imagines there might be a day he forgets he’s perched atop a windowsill when he looks down into the alley and just falls off. The idea of dying before he ever gets to kiss Carl makes him shudder and he hops off, ready to go see Winston.

Halfway towards the pub, the sky is threatening rain and Peter realizes dimly that the theatre really isn’t that far away. Perhaps Carl spends his time there before or after shows, which really didn’t mesh with Peter’s regular pub hours. Assuming Carl popped in for snacks and a chat and maybe a cheeky early pint before a show, it would probably be early afternoon to midday when he’d be there. After show pints might happen late, past midnight, and usually Peter is properly sloshed by then and sooner or later getting dragged home by John and Gary, with their big boy morning jobs and all.

There’s a large clock above the front door of an old bank near the pub that tells Peter that it’s currently four in the afternoon. Carl doesn’t have a show later anyway so Peter doesn’t know why he feels so disappointed, but he continues on. 

When he arrives at the pub, Winston immediately scowls at him and motions for Peter to come to the bar. Peter’s expecting a speech from the guy but is pleasantly surprised to see Winston motion for him to come behind the bar. He throws Peter the bar rag and shakes his head at him. 

“I know you’re in some kind of state or another. Just work for a while and then you can tell me what the fuck happened between you and Barât.”

Peter sighs and gets to work, cleaning up after the sloppy morning drunks who dribble on the bar and smell like death and gloom from the previous night sleeping by the waterside. Peter sympathizes with them because god knows he could easily be in their position if it weren’t for his guardian angels posing as best friends, so he just gives them tight grins when they ask for another lager and tries his best to cut them off easily. Most of them are too tired to argue and stumble out. Others argue and Winston has to come over and give them some speech about never being allowed to come back if they don’t sort themselves and they usually grumble and leave after that. Besides, what’s a drunk without a place to be drunk at?

Besides scrubbing down the bathrooms and making sure the bar is stocked for the night, it’s relatively easy work for some pocket money. When Winston pays him, Peter starts thinking about maybe doing something for Carl, like buying him a bouquet and just leaving it at his dressing room door. Maybe he’ll leave him poems in the flowers. Carl won’t have to see him but he won’t forget that Peter is out there, still loving him.

Peter doesn’t realize he’s milling this over with a moony expression until Winston laughs at him. “Don’t tell me. You’re in love.”

“Afraid so, Winston.”

“It’s that Barât, isn’t it? You’ll be heartbroken soon, if you aren’t already.”

Peter shrugged. “I’m a fighter.”

“So if he, apparently. Gave you a nice shiner. He looks the part to be throwing punches.”

“Yeah, he’s got the appearance for it. Gorgeous, ain’t he?”

Winston laughs. “I suppose so, if I swung that way. I’m not surprised you like boys, Petey.”

Peter is too tired to feel insulted. “How’d you reckon I liked boys? I like girls too, y’know.”

“Oh, I know. I always ever see you with a pretty girl or summat. But I’ve seen your eyes. They wander. You’re very expressive. I could tell how you felt about Barât.”

“His name’s Carl, you know.”

“Oh I know. He’s just got an interesting surname, doesn’t he?”

Peter sighs. “He does. I love him, Winston.”

“I’m sure you do. Although I can’t understand why. He’s a pretty boy but looks as straight as a pole-“

“Did you know he dances? Not to stereotype dancers, but…”

Winston looks intrigued. “Does he, now? What kind?”

“Ballet. I’ve seen him dance. You should really go see him, Winston, he’s a fucking genius. I know absolutely nothing about ballet but the first time I saw him, I was convinced he was art in motion. There’s nothing more graceful than him. And isn’t it odd? How he appears to be so tough and macho when in actuality he spends his nights twirling around with girls to old music, wearing tights ’n all?”

“Tights? Boy, I gotta see that.”

“Is that really all you got out of my speech?”

“Wasn’t much of a speech, m’boy. You didn’t tell me how he got to knocking you right on your arse in the middle of my pub.”

Peter feels even worse for wear when he relates the story back to Winston. At least with Gary he was able to hide the details but Winston saw it all. He must’ve been watching the entire time, the old fucker, just seeing how Carl was all eyes on the girl while Peter was half-fuming, half-despairing right next to him, ready to drown himself in his lager. It must’ve looked pathetic. 

“You saw it all, didn’t you? That… that tart was moving in on him!”

“I saw it, alright. Barât is an easy one, he is. The girls like him and he knows it. Like you said, all pretty and what not. Now that you mention the whole dancing thing, he’s got this air to him that I suspect is pretty charming.”

“I’ve fallen for it! God, how could I be so bloody susceptible to his magic? I’m just another one of those girls falling all over themselves at his feet… but it’s different with him. I think I can get to him somehow but I’m not quite sure yet.”

Winston spends a moment polishing a glass before turning his eyes on Peter. “And I suspect you think teasing him about being gay will get him to like you somehow?”

“Oh, not you too. I’ve received this speech already.”

“From Gary, I presume? He’s sensible.”

“Entirely. I know what I did was wrong but did you expect me to sit there and… and watch Carl and that girl cavort right in front of my eyes?!”

“I didn’t expect you to stand idly by, no. But you would do best not to antagonize him. He’s a good, regular paying customer and I can’t have you scaring him away with your undying love and affection.”

Peter has the decency to not be offended and just blush. He wonders if anyone could see it, the way he loves Carl. It sounds vain but Peter wishes he had a way to see his own face while he looks at Carl because he supposes it must look alien. Peter feels something stir in him, something so foreign that it translates onto his face and makes his bones and muscles ache. Winston probably saw all of it that night. It’s probably all so painfully obvious.

“I’m hopeless, Winston, and yet I’m not. I couldn’t give up even if I wanted to.”

“I’ve seen you with that Maria girl who looked like she should have been dating a fucking Prince so I don’t doubt your tenacity nor your own charm. Don’t sell yourself short this time, Peter.”

“My tenacity this time is only driving him further away, Winston! Every other time I’ve thrown myself at a girl with all the silly declarations, they ate it up. Carl looks fucking sick to his stomach when I do it.”

“He’s an understated man, Peter. I know it better now because he never even told me once that he’s a dancer and we’ve spoken about many things. I thought the man just made his dues with the guitar or something.”

Peter froze, feeling his insides churn against each other in the most maddening way. He watches as the surrounding area of the pub collapses onto itself, leaving Peter stranded in a dark void where he sees nothing, only hears Winston’s voice repeating, I thought the man just made his dues with the guitar or something. Then there’s a quick slideshow of Carl, his magnificently carved face, the faded blues of his eyes, the elegant cupid’s bow of his lips, the extended appendages of his fingers but this time wrapped around the neck of a guitar. Peter imagines hard calluses scraping against his neck while Carl carefully curls his hands around him, making his skin feverish, making Peter want him so fucking badly-

“Are you fantasizing in my bar, Pete Doherty? I’ll fucking kick you out right now-“

“Winston,” Peter breathes, not caring about anything else. “What did you say about the guitar?”

Winston blinks at him, forgetting how he just watched Peter dissolve into a mess of heat right before his eyes. Peter can feel his skin burn and his blood rush hot. “Oh, well, he’d mention a few times that he plays guitar. He seemed to really love it. I thought it was his job or something but I suppose it’s just a hobby.” Winston pauses and then laughs. “Really, I’m not surprised! The boy probably paints fucking portraits on the side, too. Hell, probably directs movies, too! Damn artistic fellows… London is full of them already. What’s one more?”

Peter can’t take it any longer. He tells Winston thanks for the chat and the money and he’ll probably be back sooner rather than later to help out while he looks for another job, but Peter is out of there.

When he gets outside it’s raining but it’s nothing compared to the thundering in his heart. Peter wants to see Carl so bad it hurts but there’s no show today, so what’s he doing running out into the rain for?

Romantic declarations, of course. Peter’s life is nothing without a spot of drama every now and then.

It’s night by the time he gets back to his flat. Both John and Gary are home, watching television and in the middle of trying to decide if they should just load up on chips for dinner since neither of them felt like attempting a meal. Peter deposited himself on the lumpy armchair and let his friends stare at him.

“Went to Winston’s?” John asked.

Peter nodded and squirmed in his seat. “I vote for the chippy.”

“C’mon, then.”

The previous rain has slowed to a polite drizzle, but Gary still grabs the umbrellas sitting by the doorway and puts one in Peter’s hand, like Peter didn’t just come in from the rain and is still very much wet. Peter can almost hear him grumbling in his head about colds and illness because there’s nothing more obnoxious than Peter being sick. Peter being in love might just take the top spot, however.

The chip shop is just down the road, illuminated by bright neon lights and huge windows that display all the going ons right inside. Usually, on a nicer day, the lads will just pop up by the open window and yell in their order and receive it in just five minutes or so, but with the rain, they pop inside and settle at a table by the wall.

It’s less packed than it usually is on a Friday night but Peter doesn’t mind. Gary goes to order up at the counter and John sighs tiredly across the table from Peter, bringing a fist up to rub at his left eye. “I need a new job,” he says, and Peter prepares himself for this side of John, the one that gets all downright serious about the band and everything.

“We can still play gigs, y’know. Winston will let us play out of Filthy’s whenever we’d like if we ask him nice enough.”

“It’s not just that, Pete, and you know it. We don’t have our act together in the slightest and if we aren’t even practicing, then what’s the point of it all? I might as well go back to university and look for a fucking real job.”

John works as a manager at a music store in Central London. It’s the right job for him, with all things considered, because John is just stern and cold enough to be taken seriously by employees, so the managerial position just fell into his lap when the previous one fucked off to something better. He’s good at his job because he’s got spectacular memory and a genuine love of instruments and music, which makes it easy for him to recommend customers certain things, all the while spouting musical jargon that impresses the customer enough to purchase whatever he says is good for them to get.

Gary, on the other hand, is far too bubbly and friendly to be in some sort of leadership role, but he’s personable enough to be a great employee. He’s pretty much top dog at the moving place he works at, driving a truck and transporting people’s furniture all day long. Customers say he’s one of the nicest guys they’ve ever met and receives fantastic tips in return, plus some offers to stay for a cup of tea, so all of that works out for him in the long run.

But Peter? He’s too dreamy to have any serious job and he knows it. Once upon a time he toyed with the idea of being a professor while studying English literature at Queen Mary, but after missing one too many classes writing poetry and playing his guitar, he knew it was all for nought. Whenever anyone criticizes him, Pete’s quick to just shrug while John and Gary throw in the fact that he was pretty much a genius at his secondary school and won a poetry competition, but Peter knows none of that truly matters at the current moment.

Peter knows he wants to be in a band. Hell, anyone who knows Peter for longer than five minutes knows he wants to be in a band. John is the one who takes it more seriously, always grumbling about needing a lead guitarist to flesh out the sound, while Gary is just along for the ride and secretly hoping it all works out. At least Peter thinks Gary would be the one to be least disappointed if he never becomes a proper drummer in his life. John might lament his lack of focus but just transfer those feelings into his serious job and move on.

If there’s one thing Peter couldn’t ever figure out how to do, it was to move on. Anything that was just a passing fancy in his life he could easily do without but some things grabbed him strongly by the throat and never let him breathe for years. A few of those things were Queens Park Rangers, The Smiths, The Beatles, Chas & Dave… and quite strongly Peter felt Carl being added to this list.

There’s just something about Carl that Peter believes is greater than any of them could even imagine. Of course, if he attempts to convey any of his thoughts on the matter, he’ll just receive a scoff from John and a sympathetic, pity-filled smile from Gary, neither of which are helpful in the long run. Carl is more than a pretty boy, he’s a pretty boy who can play guitar, and Peter is positively buzzing with anticipation over what the future might hold while Gary returns with the chips and begins a conversation regarding jobs and the band.

“Look, we’ll practice more. Alan Wass has a place in Bethnal Green, some shitty old mechanic shop but he says he’ll lend it out for a few quid.”

“What, so we spend a few quid lugging our gear out there maybe twice a week? And for what?” John is tense, digging greedily at the little bucket of chips on the table a bit too harshly. 

Gary shrugs and shoves a fat, greasy chip into his mouth. Around the food he mumbles, “it’s better than nothing, innit? Would make you feel more productive, like we were actually doing something rather than… y’know.”

“We work, however.” John doesn’t even try to appear as if he’s not slighting Peter. Gary winces and eyes Peter for his reaction but Peter’s in too much of a dour mood to say anything in return. He’d rather not fight in his favorite chip shop. He’s already been in a fight in his favorite pub, with the love of his life, no less.

John seems perplexed that Peter hadn’t taken his bait. Everyone knows all too well that when you tell Peter Doherty that he can’t do something, he’ll go out of his way to prove you wrong. If you tell Peter Doherty that he can’t become the Queen of England, the next day he’ll be dressed to the nines in front of Buckingham, demanding to speak to the Queen herself.

Peter fully expects their little dinner to turn into John trying to get Peter to look for work but it’s all for nothing when John just sighs. “You’re sad, aren’t you, mate?”

“Yes,” Peter replies. The chips taste a bit too soft. The crunch just isn’t there but perhaps his hair is dripping on his food. “I’ll get my head straight soon enough or I’ll die trying.”

“Might I ask, this is about that Carl fellow, isn’t it?” Gary asked, his tone telling Peter that he actually cares about what the hell happens between the two of them. 

John ducks his head. Peter just sighs. It’s all he has the strength for. “It’s just… do you know what Winston told me?”

“What did he tell you?”

“My lovely Carl plays guitar.” Peter falls back in his chair and throws an arm over his face, like he could faint right there and then. “Bless and curse my poor soul, Gary! Can you believe such a thing might happen to me?”

“Ah, I’m not surprised. He must be a real artsy type then. See if he paints portraits on the street as well.”

“That’s what Winston said, in more words than less. Carlos probably obtains a good bit of quid from the dancing, though… I mean, he must, right? When he’s the star ’n all?”

“Are you trying to figure out if you are able to marry into riches, my boy?”

Peter feels himself blush. He hadn’t pictured marrying Carl, since that is far and away from his current thoughts, but it’s a nice thought. Not that he wouldn’t look handsome in practically anything but Carl would look positively lovely in a suit. Peter could tuck his long hair behind his ear as they stand at the alter, beaming at each other, holding each other’s trembling hands and whispering sweet nothings while the officiator read on and on. They’d just stare into each other’s eyes, ready to take on the world together-

“Pete, for god’s sake, I thought you loved the boy!”

Peter slammed a fist on the table and glared at John, who finally decided to speak. “If you happened to peer inside my brain in the past moment, you would have seen a rather beautiful dream involving me joining in holy matrimony with Carl. Consider yourself off the list of men I would consider being by my side at the wedding, Jonathan.”

“That’s not even my name.”

“Well, Johnny, that’s not even your portion of chips but I don’t see you prohibiting yourself from sliding your greasy fingers on over, do you?!” 

A proper argument over dinner-eating protocol and how the rules of food-stealing don’t apply when everyone at the table lives together and regularly shares/steals meals commences, but Peter is feeling a bit crabby. The air outside is damp and he hasn’t seen Carl in way too long and he hasn’t the foggiest idea of what to do now that he very well can’t turn up at Carl’s dressing room anymore.

The next show is an evening show but Peter rises the next day at a decent hour. John is long gone to work but Gary has the day off and elected to spend it sitting in front of the television, rotting his brain because he hardly gets the time to do it anymore. There’s a trashy reality show playing and Peter spends a good hour getting invested in the characters while he munches on pieces of toast.

Another episode is beginning when Gary inquires, “are you seeing Carl today?”

Nodding, Peter tops off his toast and wipes his buttered fingers on the front of his old Beatles shirt, knowing he’ll have to change and look proper for later anyway. “Yes, he has an evening show. That will give me adequate time to find him a gift and inquire after a job.”

“A job? Jesus, if John could hear this!”

“Tell him not to fret any longer! I plan on trying to procure a Job at the Arcola.”

Gary narrows his eyes. “Do you think Carl would like that?”

“Probably not but what other choice do I have? If I get a job anywhere else then my schedule may very well overlap with his performances. I can’t miss his genius for even one minute!”

There’s a moment where it looks as if Gary truly wants to argue. It probably comes within the deep part of his heart that cares for Peter and doesn’t want to see him get hurt chasing after a beautifully straight boy, but if a boy is Peter’s reason to seek work, then Gary won’t say anything. Peter sees this, too. If he truly gets some sort of job at the Arcola, John would probably throw him a little bash.

“I’ll take janitorial work- fuck, anything to be near him! They’ve locked the windows and I got in last time by pretending to be an usher,” Peter pouted.

Gary laughed hard. “Of course you did, you silly sod! Did no one notice?”

“No,” he replied, but remembered the stupid girl who implied she slept with Carl. It made Peter’s skin crawl. “But they’ve got a less than stellar staff at the moment and I’m a perfect gentleman.”

Gary nods because yes, Peter is a perfect gentleman. That is fact. The fellow has an easy enough time securing jobs because of how perfectly gentlemanly he is during interviews, smiling that winning crooked smile and speaking in his flowery way so that the interviewer is too charmed to do anything but hire him.

So, with that in mind, Peter puts on his smartest outfit and pockets the pity money he received from Winston. He’s wearing his nice trousers and the least worn button up and slightly large blazer but it all works. It’s even better when he stops by the florist on the way to the theatre and plucks a white daisy when no one is around and sticks it in his lapel, nice and easy.

When the florist comes out to greet him, Peter smiles big and asks, “I’m in love and I need a bouquet that would most readily relay this message to the one I love.”

The florist, who is a sort of old man with white hair and thick glasses, blesses him and starts pointing at the bunches of bouquets ready for picking. Peter pauses, peering at them all with a fine eye, trying to decide if Carl is the one to like lilies or lilacs or wildflowers or roses. He thinks roses might do but they’re on the more expensive side. He won’t have much money left over if he goes for the roses, but he wants a strong declaration. Or might that send Carl off?

There’s a pretty bouquet of wildflowers, sticking up in all different sorts of ways that makes Peter thinks of the countryside. It makes his heart ache just a little for all of that sunshine and grass. Still, the bouquets would cut a hole into his pocket and he’s actually quite eager to keep something for himself until he finds a job, so Peter thinks of a very perfect idea.

“How would a single red rose do? Understated but classic, wouldn’t you think, my good man?”

“My my, is the Opera Ghost here at last? I could throw in a ribbon for you and a note card, if it would please my good sir.”

Peter is tinkled pink by the way the man talks and thanks him endlessly for the extra little touches. The old man, with trembling hands, manages to tie a perfectly pretty silken black bow around the stem of the rose. The petals feel heavy and soft beneath Peter’s fingertips.

When the man hands Peter the little notecard, it’s so blank and full of purpose that Peter shivers. Immediately the words flow out of him and he jots down little sayings for Carl that he might enjoy, all of which are mostly picked from World War I poems, yet taken out of context they aren’t as grim. They’re actually very thought provoking and he hopes Carl would appreciate it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's about all I have written so far. writing will surely continue!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a slow writer, as it turns out, but I enjoy writing this story and I will continue writing it whenever I have time.

Peter strolled towards the Arcola with a renewed sense of purpose. No longer was there the steady thrum of nervousness that previously came with his escapades to the theatre. He needn’t worry about locked doors, slags posing as employees, little pockets of ballet fans, or any of the silly little things that managed to slightly discolor his evening. Peter was very much determined to have a swimmingly pleasant time procuring a job and becoming a steady figure in Carl’s life, and not just his undoubtedly passionate number one fan.

The crier from the first time Peter found the theatre was still gone. Peter thought he would do a magnificent job being a crier for Carl, roaming the streets, passing out fliers with Carl’s beautiful face on it, proclaiming to the entire world that the world’s greatest artist was playing in the East End tonight and they would be fools to miss such a momentous occasion. 

Brimming with confidence, Peter strolled into the dusty theatre and found that yes, the freckled teen was still standing tiredly, guarding the coats. He seemed to be the theatre’s most steadfast employee.

“Excuse me, sir,” Peter began, strolling up to the boy like he hadn’t met him before, “is there a manager I may speak to?”

The teen rubbed at his shiny nose and blinked at Peter lazily. “Yeah, mate, he’s the fat fuck always running around and complaining that Carl’s late.”

Peter took a moment to wonder why Carl was always late. It added a heightened sense of drama to his character. Peter used to believe that perhaps Carl, being as talented he was, was dedicated to his craft and most likely spent much time practicing his dancing. Peter imagined Carl practicing alone, in a solitary spotlight on the stage, hours before his show was to begin, spinning and twirling through the sprites of dust that floated in the air.

However, the tale seemed to be that Carl was merely just talented. His dancing was innate. Peter thought of him dancing soullessly yet effortlessly and perfectly to rapturous applause, only to hulk back to his dressing room, his apartment, and dissolve into his guitar playing. 

Peter wondered if Carl ever played any gigs. He made a mental note to inquire about this through Winston, who knew most of the vagabonds and alternative kids that went in and out of his pub on a daily basis.

Just then, a familiar man came bellowing from out the staff door, sweating profusely and patting at his belly as if that would calm himself down. The freckled teen beside Peter scoffed and turned his back, mumbling about organizing the coats or something. 

“My my my. You’d think I’d be used to this sort of thing now! No health benefits, just endless worrying and cultivating talent. Only God knows the kind of work I do here and the endless turmoil.”

Peter lends himself a moment to disguise a laugh into a cough in the crook of his elbow. If this red faced buffoon thinks he had anything to do with Carl’s talent…

And yet, Peter knows he is entirely dependent on this narcissist for a job and a continuing excuse to see Carl, so he rolls his shoulders back, picks his head up, pulls on his trademark crooked smile and walks towards the man cautiously.

“Excuse me, sir,” Peter begins again, “might I inquire what the frightful matter is? Perhaps I can help?”

The manager doesn’t look at Peter for a moment. Instead, he pulls a yellowed handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and unfolds it almost gently, like it was his most treasured companion. He then uses his closest friend to wipe up the sweat beading on his forehead and dripping slightly at his temples. The lobby lights are quite dim, especially against the dark red of the carpet and old gilded walls.

Finally the man spares Peter a look. “Boy, have I seen you before?”

Inside, Peter’s blood runs cold. If this man has seen Peter sneaking around back stage, then he’s completely fucked. Then again, he wouldn’t give up that easy.

“You might have. I’m a regular patron. I’m quite a fan of your productions. They’re splendid, simply splendid! There’s no finer display of art in the East End, I can guarantee you that much, sir, and believe me, I am a great lover of art. I try my damnedest to seek out only what might truly rattle me to my core and your theatre has provided such joys that I have not experienced in too long a time.”

There is a beat of silence that almost too long for Peter’s liking. He thinks his flowery talk might have put the man off. It’s happened before. Peter doesn’t want to experience that again, if he can help it.

Before Peter can panic, the man puts on a huge grin akin to the one the crier had on outside on that fateful night. It’s almost like he’s concocted some sort of plan that will work in his favor, even though he knows absolutely nothing about Peter. Flattery can truly get you anywhere.

“Ah, you surely seem like the right fellow for this sort of place. You fit right in!”

Peter grins and tries not to take offense. The place still is, and will probably always be, a shithole. Maybe he does belong here, though.

“I take your compliment to heart, my good man. I’ve been told you are the manager of this fine establishment?”

“That I am. And what brings you here today? I take it you have come for Monsieur Barât’s performance?”

“Oh, surely,” Peter replies, finding himself blushing slightly. “I don’t have enough compliments for Mr. Barât, sir. He is simply divine.”

“Isn’t he? He’s so marvelous, I’m entirely convinced he’s on another plane of existence. That must be the only reason the rest of the world hasn’t noticed him yet.”

Peter perks up because yes, this man is quite right! The manager might see Carl as his cash cow, but at least he appreciates his unearthly superiority. “What a wonderful description of him! It does also astound me that he has not been noticed by any mainstream papers as of yet. I was here the day free tickets were being released to promote the appearance of journalists, and yet I found no word of him in any of the major outlets.”

The manager hung his fat head with a heavy sigh. “Truly you are correct. We’ve yet to pass that threshold. He’s gotten nothing but good reviews, however, our theatre is a mere shadow of what it once was.”

Peter grins. He might get the man now. “And are you simply the manager of the theatre? Or of the productions? The dancers?”

The man waves a hand and chuckles. “Oh, all of it! The theatre is my inheritance. It’s a family affair. Carl, however, fell into my lap a little over a year ago and I’ve been trying to make the most use of him since. So far, it’s been difficult. He seems to allude people.”

Peter swells with pride at these words. His love! His Carl, so utterly magnificent that people come to see him and leave in a daze so heavy, it’s almost as if they weren’t there. His dancing can skyrocket people to Neverland, past constellations and planetary bodies, spinning just as gracefully as Carl himself onstage.

But the problem lies therein, sadly enough. It’s fairly obvious that the manager is simply at his wit’s end when it comes to true, raw talent. If he was a man with any true appreciation for what Carl was and not what he might do for the state of the theatre, he’d let Carl go. 

But he won’t let Carl go.

Peter feels worry so sharp it cuts painfully in his chest and flares through his veins. 

It’s so obvious now! 

“Sir,” Peter tries, “I don’t doubt your belief in Carl or your theatre, but perhaps… there are other methods to this madness.”

The manager opens his large mouth, ready with a sputter of nonsense, but just looks Peter dead in the eye. “What are you getting at, boy? Out with it.”

So that’s when Peter explains that perhaps Carl isn’t meant to be shared with the world through uptight journalists. Perhaps the kind of people that will truly rise Carl to greatness isn’t stuffy theatre snobs who frequent the West End on a weekly basis. The type of audience the manager was fighting to bring in, the smartly dressed, impressive yuppies from Central London, were never going to give Carl a chance. It didn’t matter how wonderful he sounded on paper, if they even managed to pick up one of the cheap zines on the street that featured the Arcola and Carl’s leads. What mattered was that the Arcola was in the East End, on a grotty street sprouting with old weeds, where the wind blew between the buildings and pulled up skirts far too often.

“You see, your best bet is to build a fan base within the East End. Get those alternative kids you turn your nose up at. Carl is one of them, is he not?”

The manager glosses over Peter’s slight and nods, brow furrowing. “Yes… his leather jacket. Thought he was in a band at first.”

Peter couldn’t stop himself from grinning. “Precisely. Market him as one of their own. His people will come in legions. Their passion and word of mouth will be better for you than any thousand-word print in a cheap paper could ever accomplish. Soon, you’ll be filling the theatre with kids who made their own t-shirts with Carl’s name on it. They’ll yell in the streets for him and you won’t even have to pay them.”

“But I’ll have to pay you, won’t I?”

Peter shrugs, but he’s taller than the manager. He looks down and squares his shoulders and tilts his head back, quirking his mouth before speaking. “It would do. I’m practically the ringleader of these pub crawling tribes. They’ll listen to me first. Then they’ll listen to Carl.”

Not five minutes later, Peter is shaking the man’s hand and being promised a weekly wage, provided he comes to as many shows as possible and keeps the theatre flowing with customers. It’s not set in stone like his other traditional jobs but that in itself makes Peter excited. 

He’s positively dying to inform Gary and John of his new job. He knows they won’t take it as seriously as it is because he practically made up the job on the spot, all because he was practically high on his love for Carl and his extreme need to be around him as much as possible. 

The job began that day, with the manager informing Peter of what he should expect as the theatre’s new employee. “Carl is nearly always late. I’ve stopped asking why. He simply arrives when he wants and leaves when he wants.”

“Has this become a big issue? Besides taking a toll on your mental health, obviously.”

“It’s unprofessional and positively worrisome. My anxiety will have me believe there will be a day he will fail to show up completely and everything I’ve worked for goes down the drain. I have much reason to believe he won’t get to that point but, a man at my age? I have plenty reason to worry.”

Peter bites his tongue. He has a hunch that he won’t even let himself think about too deeply yet, or else he’ll blow up on the manager. He’s still got Carl’s rose and note tucked inside his jacket and he’s not sure how he’ll get it to him without making a scene. Or making Carl even more disappointed or angry with him. The thought makes Peter’s nose hurt. 

Now that he doesn’t need to hide, Peter strolls, which is his favorite thing to do. He takes his time peering at the old photos in the hallways. He goes to find Carl in the latest ones, framed in color and still picture perfect. 

Peter’s breath stills when he finds him. In the earliest photo, dated February of the previous year, Carl is standing with slightly hunched shoulders, covered in a zipped up leather jacket and dark, feathered hair half covering his face. He looks positively majestic besides the motley crew of staff. At least the ballerinas look pretty, with their slender limbs and white smiles. He even sees the one next to Carl leaning entirely too close to him and Peter chuckles. Carl’s a magnet. He’s seen it in action.

Following the photos down the corridor, he saw Carl take practically the same pose, just with varying types of outerwear. Even in a summer production he was wearing his leather jacket. Peter smiles, reaching out to gently trace the sweeping lines of Carl’s face, arms, legs… for a moment he forgets how close he’s been to him. With a sudden burst of heat in his chest he remembers Carl’s angry hands on him, the flicker of regret in his apology, the wet glisten of his lip after taking a swig of lager…

Peter takes control of himself and slithers downwards, to a staff-only marked doorway he supposes he’s able to pass now. It leads to a solitary staircase with steps going up and down, although Peter suspects what might be down versus what might be up.

He heads down, thinking of Alice, ghosting his hand over the cracked paint in the railings and hearing the sound of his boots against the hollow steps. 

One story down, he emerges out the door and finds the bustle of the pre-production circus. 

He presses himself up against the wall when a flurry of ballerinas in white practically run past him, like gazelles through tall grass, going around a corner and out of sight. A man with a hulking tuba goes by, wincing as he struggles to carry it on his shoulder, yet Peter can see the soft way his hands hold the instrument, as if it was his child. 

There, of course, is shouting. It goes over everyone’s heads and Peter is unsure if there is any rhyme or reason to the chaos, yet the productions he’s seen had always gone off without a hitch so he supposes everyone is going about their business however they see fit. Peter just hopes he won’t disrupt any kind of ritual or routine the crew has, and slinks around corners and continues pressing up against walls to get out of the way of people.

He knows he must be near the dancers’ dressing rooms, because Carl’s name is thrown around at a maddening rate.

“Where’s Carl?”

“Has anyone seen Carl?”

“He’s not here,” someone yells tiredly, “but he will be! Calm the fuck down!”

“He needed a new costume for today! It’s not been tailored properly!”

“No one will care!”

“Carl knows.”

“Carl always knows. Carl doesn’t care!”

Peter laughs and no one hears him.

“Don’t go in there!” Peter sees a young ballerina looking almost frightful, tugging at the arm of an older woman. “What if he catches you in there? He’ll be upset. You know what he’s like when he’s upset.”

“What, he won’t let you suck him off after the show when he’s in a bad mood? Leave the boy alone. All of you, I swear, do you only dance here for a chance to sleep with him?”

Peter growls as he watches the ballerina’s face turn red. At least she’s not smug like that one employee. She’s shy and beautiful, with white skin and curly dark brown hair that frames her face like a portrait. 

“I- I just mean, the dancing is better when he’s not angry. Is all I’m saying.”

“Huh.” The woman doesn’t look convinced. She’s dressed all dour, like a period film gone bad, with teased gray hair folded up atop her head and crude red on her cracked, old lips. “I’m just putting his costume in here for him so I won’t need to deal with him later. If you’re so sure he won’t mind his costume not fitting, that is.”

“I can help him with that.”

“Sure you can, love. Want to risk poking him with the sewing needle?”

The ballerina shakes her head and the old woman huffs. “Go on now, girl! He doesn’t like people hovering by his door when he comes in! You know that well enough, don’t you?”

Peter watches as the ballerina gives him meekly, biting her pink bottom lip and prancing out of sight. The old woman pauses and mumbles a prayer to herself before pulling a set of keys out from the small leather bag at her hip. She unlocks Carl’s door and slips inside, then comes back out.

Peter makes his move.

“Don’t close the door!”

“Aye? And who are you?” She’s even uglier up close. Peter can see the cracks in her foundation makeup when it won’t blend in through her deepest wrinkles. He thinks about Maria and her flawless skin and wonders if the old woman used to look like that. Or if Maria will come to look like this. Carl will probably age like a fucking god on Olympus. 

“Publicist! Recent hire. I’ve got a note for Carl from the manager and I just need to put it inside for him. I haven’t been given keys yet.”

The woman looks as if she wants to argue just because it’s in her nature, but gives up just as easily and holds the door open for Peter to slip inside. He mutters a truly grateful thank you and goes in, closing the door shut behind him.

He breathes deeply. 

Carl’s dancing sanctuary isn’t what he expected it to be. He’s almost offended that the room is so small and yet it could be passed off as cosy, depending on who owned the room. He’s not entirely sure of Carl’s nature yet, however, the room does look a little homey. It’s mostly due to the light blue color of the walls, not unlike Carl’s eyes, Peter thinks warmly. It goes well with the off-white carpeting and the upholstered dark blue couch, covered in an almost threadbare red plaid blanket and two squashed plaid pillows. A little dark wood coffee table is covered in sheets of paper, magazines, and books, with absolutely no space to place a cup of coffee. Or tea, better yet. 

Peter is itching to be nosy and peer at the table but he knows he must be quick before Carl comes storming in. He notices the tall dark armoire, a door open to reveal some stage costumes Peter recognizes. There’s also some of Carl’s clothes there as well. He recognizes the dark wash denim jacket he saw him wear in one of the cast photos. A pair of his boots is sitting in the corner nearest the vanity.

There’s a closed bathroom door that Peter dares not open.

The vanity calls him over, with it’s too bright lights. The dresser is the same dark wood as the armoire and table, though the surface is scratched and dull with use. Some of Carl’s things are lying about, like more papers, playbills, packs of cigarettes and lighters, coupons for that chip shop not that far away from Winston’s pub. He can’t help but notice the etchings of what look to be lyrics, with guitar chords scribbled in above the words. There’s even crude drawings of tabs with little dark circles for Carl to remember where to place his fingers the next time he plays.

It stirs something in Peter’s heart. He feels so close to him. It’s becoming apparent that no matter how much Carl tries to push Peter away, they have things in common. The whole flickering flame of fate in Peter’s heart suddenly fires up, brighter and burning in his chest as his fingers itch to turn through the pages and eat up Carl’s words and melodies. He thinks- no, he knows they will be beautiful.

But now is not the time.

Peter pulls the rose and note from is jacket and smiles when he finds he hadn’t accidentally squished the flower. The rose, the ribbon, and the note are still in prime shape as he settles them directly on top of Carl’s papers. The contrast of black on white will make it so that Carl could never ignore this gift, no matter how much he probably wants to. 

Peter is just about ready to leave when his eye catches something on Carl’s mirror, because it’s a note. In Peter’s handwriting. 

Indeed, it’s a note Peter wrote to Carl, with all the fanciful sayings pulled straight from his heart. And it’s tucked into the mirror, in between the glass and the wood, right by Peter’s eyesight when he leans in to stare at it.

He can hardly believe it’s there! Who knew? Peter had been certain Carl would be the type to just throw everything away, as bitter a pill that was to swallow. If he was so reluctant to receive the gifts in the first place, why would he keep them? It baffled Peter just as much as it pleased him. He was so in love, it was difficult to stop from giggling.

Then he noticed more, like the Smiths single, sitting atop the vanity, leaning against the mirror like a prized possession. Peter’s heart raced as he went to the coffee table, eyes skimming over the books until he saw it: the Keats book, on the edge of the table, opened to a page and lying face down as to not lose it’s place.

Peter’s heart burned.

However, he knew it would be sudden death to be caught in here without Carl’s permission, treasured gifts be damned. He escaped back out the door and into the rush of people, yelling about thirty minutes to curtains! A man with a broken violin string was wailing. 

Peter, in the midst of everything, felt his world slow down, almost like being submerged in water. The world around him fell into a dull echo. It was the moment where clarity came over him, just as the stern image of Carl came barreling down the corridor.

Ducking out of the way, just like everyone else, Peter watched Carl stomp his way in his weathered Doc Martens, tattered denim jacket, and fiddle with the knob of his dressing room door until it gave away and let him inside. Peter imagined Carl dissolving into the couch, taking in words from the book on his table, psyching himself up in the mirror vanity with hungry glances towards Peter’s words.

It couldn’t be true. Peter held his breath and shushed his own brain into normalcy as he crept back into the stairwell, anxious to get a good spot on the floor rather than in the upper boxes where he’d been hiding before. He ached to see Carl in a new angle, from a low level where he might appear hoisted up on that grand stage in full glory of the flickering stage lights. The orchestra would be beneath, always beneath the glittering majesty of Carl, just like everyone else. 

Suddenly Peter thought it was a damn disgrace to have anyone sit above Carl and look down on him. It simply wasn’t correct.

Flashing back through the lobby, Peter spotted the manager once again. One glance at tonight’s playbill and he learns that the man is called Timothy Rockwell, a peculiar name for a man who seemed so steeped in the London arts. Then again, with a name like Doherty, a name you had to spit out of your mouth, Peter was no one to judge. 

Admittedly, Peter wasn’t taking his new job at the theatre seriously until he was settled in his seat near the front of the stage. He took many careful looks around and was dutifully appalled at the lack of a crowd. It suddenly seemed to be immensely important to get as many people as possible to see Carl, even if it meant gaining him more sly admirers. Peter knew he’d have to share Carl a bit before he could have him, as desperately as he wanted to have him alone, forever, perhaps on that couch in his dressing room.

By now Peter had memorized the gentle swells of the music. He knew every dance and every musical cue that would signal Carl’s arrival and Carl’s departure from the stage. So, upon hearing the magnificent drum beat that would bring him onstage, Peter gripped the edges of his seat and beamed as he saw his love come onto the stage.

The lights shine differently at the low angle, in a way that it casts different shadows across Carl’s face and highlights over features. And yet it’s the proximity to Carl that Peter has come to notice the speckles of blue and black bruising over his arms, coupled with reddish skin irritation that he hadn’t noticed before. He knew Carl couldn’t be nervous, surely he’d done this same dance more times than Peter can ever know, and yet something seemed off about Carl. 

It wasn’t his dancing. That, in particular, was as glorious as it ever was and Peter was certain he could never be better, yet he was always surprised. However, Carl’s face held a certain anger it hadn’t held before. Nights and days past, Peter had noticed that Carl always had a look of blankness, like his body was moving on it’s own accord and not without any of Carl’s pressing, like a phantom dancer. Evidently, it seemed tonight something had stirred Carl’s dislike, seeing the brutal lines of his face, the jaw cut sharp and brows furrowed to ultimate distress.

It hadn’t been like the look of annoyance when he spotted Peter in the stands again. It was like that night at the pub, right before a great shiner to the face and the subsequent argument outside on the lonely sidewalk. 

What pained Peter the most was the hint of a split lip, shining red in the spotlight, and Carl’s slight wince as he came up on his tip toes, pulling himself into different positions that seemed so effortless to him before. Now, Peter could mark his struggle. Something was torturing the dear boy. Or someone…

It seemed Carl’s anger had kept him from spotting Peter in the crowd, which probably was for the best. Peter had every urge to run backstage and gather Carl up in his arms to run the pad of his thumb over his lips, to stop the blood flow, to kiss every sullen bruise coloring his porcelain skin. Either that or question who the fuck did this to his love so Peter can find them and tie them up and toss them into the Thames to sink to the bottom, where they’d be forgotten forever.

Peter did none of that. He took his weary bones and aching heart back home with him, where he could gather up as much clarity as possible over a cup of tea brewed by Gary.

“Out with it, Peter, damn it. You’ve been brooding so hard and it’s unbearable,” John huffed, already folding down his newspaper to prepare for Peter’s inevitable speech or dramatic declaration.

Peter went with the declaration, after throwing his spoon into his tea cup with a clatter and throwing himself back on the couch with a sigh. “Carl is a mystery! A completely beautiful mystery that I must solve before I go positively mad!”

Gary just laughed. “What’s the mystery, huh?”

And with that, Peter relayed his actions of the night. When he got to the part about getting his job for the theatre, John and Gary both felt fine with the idea as long as Peter got paid for the damn thing. Let the boy earn money for his undying love and devotion, they thought. Good on him.

John was shaking his head in disbelief and Gary giggling as Peter told of finding his gifts in Carl’s dressing room. John couldn’t admit that it might mean anything beyond Carl just left the stuff there. Gary was a bit more hopeful and encouraged Peter to continue the story, knowing that he could spend another hour just spilling out little details regarding the immense meaning of it all.

Peter blanched at his own retelling of Carl’s physical state. 

“It was horrible! Who would hurt him so? Don’t they know what a treasure he is to this city- no, to this world?”

“Seems a bit of a punk, yeah?” John just shrugged. “Perhaps he’s got some personal issues that had to be dealt with. It’s natural. Sometimes you’re pissed but you still have to go to work, not like you’d know…”

Gary narrowed his eyes briefly at John but expanded on his point. “I understand your concern but it really might not mean anything.”

Peter couldn’t take their words. That icky feeling of dread was settling even heavier in his chest after thinking more deeply on what Carl looked like. He thought about the ramshackle dressing room and the constant harried expression on Carl’s face when he stomped his way in for every show. It had every look of a man who did not want to be there, despite his gorgeous talent. 

Peter felt sick with what it all might mean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again! comments are greatly appreciated! any thoughts and suggestions are welcomed!

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


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